Gift of Chicken
by Duckie Nicks
Summary: House and Cuddy struggle to deal with the ramifications of their agreement to make him Rachel's legal guardian. Sequel to "Gift of Screws." CONTAINS ADULT SITUATIONS. Established House/Cuddy.
1. Chapter 1

Author's Notes: This was originally written for paroulis as part of help_lisa. She won an auction for a one shot and asked for a sequel to Gift of Screws that explored Rachel and House's relationship and where House and Cuddy had sex, of course. If any of that offends you, turn away now please. For those of you who do continue to read, you'll notice two things: 1). this takes place only two months or so after the events of Gift of Screws, which I highly recommend reading if you haven't, because this doesn't follow canon after a certain point. There is a reason for this: a much longer sequel that I've always considered writing about eventually. This stands on its own, but there are also little hints throughout this that will bridge into a sequel should I write it.

2). This isn't a one shot. Some of you may still find this a bit long, but I decided to split it up because this would be quite a lot for a one shot that would really do best as a multi-chaptered fic in my opinion. So hopefully those of you have left me that criticism in the past will like the shorter chapter. If it's still too long for you, I recommend going to squeeka_quack on LJ, where you will find all of my works broken down into much shorter posts because of LJ's word limit. Thanks for reading and most especially thanks to paroulis for her donation and her patience.

_Disclaimer: I don't own the show. Obviously._

**Gift of Chicken  
Chapter One: Blood and Disappointments**  
_By Duckie Nicks_

"Are you listening to me?"

House wanted to raise his head and shoot her the blank look that would answer her question and spare him the effort of talking. But if he were too tired to tell her no, he was surely too exhausted to move.

"No," he slurred. Although he couldn't see her face from this position, he knew she was annoyed. His head resting on her chest and one of his arms slung around her waist, he could feel her muscles tense. Yeah, he thought, she was peeved.

Truthfully though, this was her fault completely. If she'd wanted him to listen, she should have had this conversation with him hours ago – not waited until they were in bed together, his body curled against hers, ready to fall asleep. Better yet, she could have realized they didn't need to have the discussion _at all_ and left him out of it altogether.

The hand she'd had running through his hair suddenly stopped, proof that she would never agree with his assessment of the situation.

"This is important," she said in a voice that bordered between serious and whiny.

"You mean this isn't just a really lame bedtime story?"

He regretted saying it as soon as he had. The last few months had been tense, and recent weeks had had House and Cuddy succumbing to that pressure.

There had been the need to find a new school for Rachel, which had meant interviews and tests. Naturally that meant Cuddy, who had excelled from a young age at making great impressions, had gone into overdrive primping her daughter and her boyfriend to look good at those meetings. Not surprisingly but much to Cuddy's dismay, he hadn't performed to her liking. He'd tried (if only to avoid pissing her off), but there had been only so much he could do to appeal to teachers and principals.

Thankfully that hadn't mattered in the end; Rachel had done fine all on her own. But then, that hardly eased any tension. The problem had been solved, yes, but it meant for Cuddy unalterable proof that there had been a problem to begin with. For all of her efforts to push Rachel ahead in school, to give her daughter the advantage she thought Rachel needed, Rachel would start at her new school where the county had originally wanted to place her. Technically she would be where she belonged, having not met the cut off date to start school to begin with. But because of Cuddy's meddling, it would now look like Rachel had needed to repeat a year. And the fact was… she _did_ need that. House knew that Cuddy would never believe that this was a failure on _Rachel's_ part, just as he knew that Cuddy would view this absolutely as one of her own shortcomings. He'd heard her say it – that she should have known, that she should have listened to him; she should have never pushed to begin with. The solution had only created doubt.

On top of that was the continued issue of finding a new nanny. Again, Cuddy idealistically wanted things to be one way. In spite of everything that had already happened, she was unable to be pragmatic. She hadn't articulated this, probably because she didn't understand it herself, but she would never embrace realism when it came to Rachel. Somehow that would feel like giving up on her.

In this particular case, Cuddy suffered from the delusion that they could continue to do everything on their own. They didn't need help; they needed time to get used to life after Marina's death.

It would have been nice to believe that that was completely true, that their tiny family could function all on its own. Why wouldn't House want to think they could alternate between picking Rachel up and taking her to school, helping her with her homework, feeding her, and putting her to bed every night? It wasn't exactly _great_ to know that there needed to be another set of hands. For that reason alone, House had gone along with the insanity.

It hadn't hurt that, when it went well, it made Cuddy _happy_. She loved her job, yes, but she was perfectly content to be able to wait for Rachel outside of school and hear about her day – even if it then meant bringing Rachel back to work to sit in one of their offices. But last week had sobered House to this tenuous situation. Cuddy had been so busy that he'd volunteered to pick Rachel up from school, and he'd been in the middle of entertaining her when…

His patient had died.

To soothe his frustrations, Cuddy had conceded that they needed a nanny. (Secretly she had, no doubt, harbored feelings that this was unnecessary, only happening to make her stubborn lover happy.) But by then, as he had pointed out, it was too late. Quickly the conversation had devolved into a fight. He'd blamed her as harshly as possible, the nagging thought that this case could have been _different_ torturing him.

Cuddy had not liked that. Predictably, she had responded just as hurtfully, but in the heat of the moment, she had gone a step further. She'd brought up their main source of stress between them, saying, "I understand you're frustrated. But if you have a hard time balancing work and Rachel now, _how_ are you going to do it when you are her legal guardian?"

She wasn't genuinely asking.

She was throwing their agreement in his face, threatening to revoke it if he wasn't grateful at every moment for the gift she was giving him. She was reminding him that she would _never_ sign the papers if he kept behaving this way.

Well, technically speaking, the papers had already been signed. He had wanted to wait, but he was willing to embrace pragmatism far more easily than she could. If something happened to Cuddy during this time period, he would not leave Rachel's future to chance, because they hadn't prepared for that possibility. He'd had Cuddy sign the papers. But again, per their agreement, the documents wouldn't be filed until his birthday, his imposed deadline for this change.

If he were being honest, she had handed over the rights he wanted already. The documents were in a lock box that Cuddy didn't know the code to. She couldn't take back what she'd already set in motion. That said, he didn't want to hoard away his proof of responsibility. He didn't want her to resist this change as much as she was. And above all else, he didn't want _Rachel_ to be thrown in his face.

Needless to say, he was still getting over _that_ one. They both were.

Today had been the first day things between them had been normal. They hadn't fought (well, except that conversation they'd had about his clinic hours, but that was nothing; it didn't count). They'd had sex, although they hadn't ever stopped. This was just… _nicer_. It didn't feel like they were in a competition to get off as quickly as possible by fucking as violently as they could.

And now, he feared the next few weeks would be a repeat of the last one. They'd fight. They'd have sex. New scratches would replace the ones she'd carved angrily into his back, shoulders, and ass. They would return to the same dark place they had been in, only this time escape would be that much more elusive. It would be his fault that this happened. He had put them on this path and for what?

A crappy joke meant to show that he wasn't listening to her.

Instantly he tried to rectify his mistake. His tone much softer, he said reassuringly, "I'm sorry. I just meant that this isn't my first time picking Rachel up. You don't need to go through her schedule."

The apology was silently accepted. She didn't remind him of the last time he'd picked Rachel up and the problems that resulted from it, thankfully. Instead she told him, "It helps me relax."

House finally raised his head and turned, so he could look her in the face. Eyebrow lifted, he searched for clarification. "What's that? Telling me what to do?"

She tugged on his hair to force him to lift his head more; his chin was digging into her chest. "No," she said vaguely annoyed. "Going over the schedule. It helps me feel… calmer."

"Most people would just ask their boyfriend to rub their backs."

The offer, and it _was_ one, surprised her. "I didn't think you would," she confessed.

He shrugged. "Roll over."

The bed sheets rustled as they moved about so that she was on her stomach and he was sitting up by her side. When his fingers began rubbing her neck, she groaned.

"Oh, that's good." After a moment, she admitted tiredly, "You're so good to me… _sweet_. And I'm so mean." There wasn't a hint of sarcasm in her voice.

"You're not mean." If he didn't say that, there would be a fight. But he didn't believe she was, so it didn't matter anyway. "I'm asking a lot of you," he said sympathetically, leaning down and kissing her shoulder. He lingered against her skin. "I don't… I'm not trying to hurt you."

She was silent for a moment, then:

"I know…. I know, House."

* * *

Rachel trudged toward him unhappily, her book bag dragging on the ground. It had been agreed upon by Cuddy and the school that Rachel should finish the year where she was. That only constituted three more weeks, considering it was May, but every day, Rachel fought to get out of it.

"I wanna go home," she whined, dropping her things at his feet. "I don't wanna go t' the hospital."

"It's a good thing we're not going to the hospital then, isn't it?" He leaned down to pick up her bag. "Come on. Get in the car."

Rachel didn't move, distrustful.

"All right. Well, you can stay put if you want. I'll call Mommy and tell her _she_ has to come pick you up, which you _don't_ want cause I may or may not take you to work, but Mommy definitely _will_."

It wasn't just a threat House was making. It was an accurate prediction. If he had to call Cuddy, she would defensively keep Rachel with her. He couldn't get the kid in the car, so why would she trust him to handle the situation after that? She wouldn't.

She could afford to make that choice. She wasn't staying at work to do her job. She was holding interviews for a new nanny. House and Cuddy had decided that they would introduce Rachel only to the serious candidates, the very few who would fit the criteria of being kind, smart, and above all else, capable of giving Rachel her medicine. But it wouldn't be the worst thing ever for Rachel to meet some of the rejects. At least Cuddy would think that.

So Rachel would end up precisely where she didn't want to be if she kept this up. It was simply inevitable.

She must have realized this, because she stopped putting up a fight. "Fine." He leaned against the car, so she could get between him and the truck some jackass had parked terribly. Stomping miserably, she nearly hit the truck with her car door when she went to get inside. Luckily House had prepared himself for the possibility of a tantrum and had been there to catch the door before it did any damage.

Afterwards, as he watched Rachel climb inside, he was tempted to say something to her. She wasn't supposed to behave like this, indignation bubbling up inside him of its own free will. She should know better, he told himself, thought back to how he would have been punished if he'd done what she had. And instantly, he could say nothing at all.

He didn't like considering his own childhood when faced with Rachel's. That was something he was quickly discovering; his mind would not allow for comparison. _He_ wouldn't. Whatever role Cuddy let him have in Rachel's life, it wouldn't ever be anything like he'd witnessed as a child.

Without needing to try, House remained calm. Even as he noticed her attempting to slide past her booster seat, his voice stayed conversational. "Where are you going?"

She paused, sighed. "Don't wanna sit there."

"But that's where your seat is."

Rachel shot him a dirty look. "Madison says that's where _babies_ sit."

"Madison?" House said, pretending he didn't know which runt Rachel was talking about. "Oh, _that_ kid. Well what does she know? I thought her parents drove around with her in the _trunk_."

As far as jokes went, it wasn't a good one. But she laughed anyway.

With her mood improved, he tried again with her. "Come on. In the booster seat."

She frowned but didn't fight. Letting him buckle her in, she asked, "Why do I have to use the seat?"

"It keeps you safe."

"'S stupid," she muttered.

"You'll get over it." He tested the buckle to make sure she was secure and then eyed her warningly in case she decided to try getting out of the seat while he was driving. God help him if that happened; he'd have to keep both sharp objects and his testicles out of Cuddy's reach.) She made no move to escape though and didn't show any sign of considering doing something like that. So satisfied, he dropped her bag onto the floor in front of her and closed the door.

As he started to drive off moments later, he braced himself for the litany of poorly phrased complaints. She used to be quiet on the ride home, but now that she sensed weakness, they'd already told her there would be a new school in the fall, she took that to mean, if she whined enough, she could avoid school for the rest of her life. Or maybe having realized someone was acknowledging her difficulty, she felt loved enough to start talking about some of the things she would have kept to herself at one point. Whatever the reason, this had become the norm. Every turn narrated with stories of what Madison or Nevaeh had said to her today. Every foot driven matched by sentences missing a third of their words as Rachel emotionally explained her day. That was how this usually went.

House did his best never to ignore her… completely anyway. Once he realized he _wanted_ to be Rachel's father, he knew he had to prove he was worthy of that role. Some things like listening to Rachel's angst weren't exactly his idea of fun, but if he hoped to get what he wanted, there were things he needed to do. So he was prepared for her bitching when he asked, "What did you do today?"

"Nothing," she spit out.

If she didn't want to talk about it, part of him thought he should accept this lucky moment without question. But he couldn't. The change in behavior made him curious.

"Nothing?" he asked in a deliberately _not_ confrontational manner. "You just sat at your desk all day?"

"Uh huh."

"Really? You didn't learn anything? You didn't eat? Didn't take a dump in –"

She screeched in irritation and kicked the seat in front of her. He didn't respond much less judge her for her frustration. He'd been baiting her – not to piss her off, but to prompt her into talking. But he'd only upset her. That wasn't her fault. And although he didn't want her to think whining would get her what she wanted, he also didn't want to antagonize her any further.

He kept his voice calm. "You're not very convincing, but if you –"

"Shane's mom brought cookies for his birthday, and everyone gotta eat some, but I don't cause they's has peanuts." Her foot connected with the back of the passenger side seat again, the dull sound of her shoe against the cushion reinforcing how upset she was.

"Yeah, that sucks." On their own the words would have sounded sarcastic, but he was attempting to hide his irritation at the school, at the teacher who idiotically would have allowed the cookies to be served when there was someone in the class with a peanut allergy. Combined, he was the appropriate level of angry. But outrage wasn't beneficial for anyone right now. He didn't feel good about saying this; yet he knew it was important. The older Rachel got, the more she understood her troubles were not universal. The medications, the illness, the constant testing and worrying – other children didn't have to deal with that. On some level, she'd probably known for a while, suspected it anyway. Now she was reaching an age where the proof was undeniable, as real as the upset that fact created.

Though it was offered frequently, comfort was of small consolation. What Rachel needed was to eventually accept that this was how her life would be. She would need to test her blood sugar, keep an inhaler with her at all times, take medicine when her mother told her to. She couldn't deny her circumstances even if they made her unhappy. Of course, that was easier wished for than accomplished, and no one knew better than House himself that surrendering yourself to a life everyone else around you would never have was hardly a simple matter. Your mind was never unaware of the luck others had, and more than the state of your body itself, it was that awareness that gave birth to unhappiness. Some would view this natural process as a choice for victimization, but they were wrong about that. At no point were you giving yourself consent to feel worse about your life. Assumptions otherwise just made the feeling that much more pronounced.

With Rachel, it was imperative to get her through that stage. He didn't want her to be miserable any longer than she needed to be. And so while he felt like an idiot pointing it out, it needed to be said:

"But… sometimes that's going to happen. Other people won't always remember that you –"

"I know," she said with disdain.

"Then you also know that there are plenty of cookies in –"

"But I don't _have_ those cookies."

"Right," he said rolling his eyes. "If only there were a way of asking for –"

"I want cookies!"

He didn't respond, internally debating how he should proceed. For him, it wasn't so much a matter of whether or not he should give her what she wanted; he had no problem doing that. But there was always the chance that Cuddy would find fault in his choice, and so he needed to make a decision that would result in the best defense for her possible displeasure. When thinking like this, House always realized how terrible it all sounded; he was making her seem crazy, which was hardly fair to her. Really, it was only right that she look out for her daughter. That was what a _mother_ was supposed to do. He couldn't be offended because of that. Although he would have liked her trust to be given freely, he was content to be given the chance to earn it. He was amazed he'd gotten that far anyway. Because of that, he didn't want to make the wrong choice.

In this context however, it was hard to see what was _right_. She was just as likely to say he was spoiling Rachel as she was to judge him for not giving Rachel cookies. It could go either way. So House went with what he wanted to do; it would be easier to defend in the long run.

"_Relax_, kid," he told her, turning the car in the opposite direction of where they lived.

Rachel didn't understand. "You're going the wrong way!"

"We're not going home. We're going to the grocery store."

"Don't wanna!" He saw her pouting in the rearview mirror and ignored her. If she wanted to act like an idiot instead of asking him why they were going to the supermarket, she could do that. He would block her out, and when she figured out the truth, her punishment would be the embarrassment she felt for behaving like a fool.

Even so, his plan had its insurmountable flaws. For example, Rachel had to be aware enough to recognize her mistake. She was not. The more he ignored her, the more worked up she became, and the less capable of seeing the truth she was. By the time they go to the store, House's mistake was undeniable. Once again, he had managed to take a wrong turn with Rachel.

He sighed and got out of the car and wondered if he would ever be any good at this. Cuddy seemed to be under the paradoxical impression that this was all so easy for him (so much so that he in fact jeopardized the relationship _she_ had with her daughter) and at the same time, that the business of parenthood was something he couldn't possibly understand, want, or succeed at. Nevertheless, he felt that she had more faith in him than he had in himself; he had never seen the ease in his abilities, the ones she feared to the detriment of their relationship. He didn't see it now.

That would bother him. Under normal circumstances, it really would, but Rachel's screaming was a terribly effective distraction. Jerking her door open, he told her in a stern voice, "You can shut up at any time now." It was no surprise though that that didn't work. So he went for transparency. "I thought you wanted _cookies."_

Through her tantrum, she heard the stress he placed on that word. In between dramatic, tearless sobs, she wailed, "I _do_. But we have any."

"We _don't_ have any, yeah," he corrected shortly. "If only there were some magical location where bratty little girls could get –"

"I not bratty!"

"You're doing a fantastic impression then." He was careful to keep his tone light through this part of the conversation. She was being annoying, but he didn't want to make the situation worse than it was by giving her reason to believe he fully meant the name he had called her.

"No, I'm not!" she yelled, not at all deterred. She said this, because she didn't have any other comeback.

"Okay, well, you can keep acting like an idiot, _or_ you can calm down and come into the store with me where I _might_ – _might_," he repeated for emphasis. "Be willing to buy cookies. _If you're good_."

That shut her up immediately. The screaming stopped. The horrible attempt at crying was abandoned. She no longer wriggled, desperate to get out. As though she'd been replaced by her good twin, the change was definite and sudden. Still he was reluctant to trust it.

As he helped her out of the car, he explained to her the rules in the same manner he had seen Cuddy do many times before. "I have to get some things for dinner, so you're going to have to be patient if you want those cookies."

"Okay," she said with a succinct nod of her head.

"And don't put things in the cart unless I tell you to. I don't wanna be sifting through five kinds of vinegar when we're in line."

"Okay." Assuming they were done, she started to take off into the parking lot.

House was quick to grab her before she ran out into traffic. "And _don't_ do that."

From that point on, she stayed _right by_ his side, her feet practically tripping over him. He offered to put her in the cart, but she didn't want that, and so he had to contend with a five year old who wanted so badly to be seen as good that she was willing to do anything to make that impression. There was probably a moment where he should have told her to stop; she was so close, she was in danger of hurting one of them. But knowing her, he thought she would assume stop meant she wasn't going to get any cookies. And that would create a big fight he didn't want to deal with. He let her keep up the act.

Yet he was aware this was more than an easy path being chosen. Hard as it was sometimes to believe, there was a part of him that longed to be Rachel's father… and a good one at that. This hardly made him Dad of the Year, but the way she clung to him? He could at least pretend she was doing it for other reasons. When an elderly woman smiled at him as he picked out squash with Rachel leaning into him, it didn't feel fake. It didn't seem like any of this was about getting cookies.

But of course, it _was, _andeventually that couldn't be ignored. After he'd picked up everything he needed, he led Rachel to the aisle with the cookies. "Pick something."

"I want the strawberry cookies with the oatmeal and…."

He stopped listening to her description at that point, though she had no problem going on and on about what she wanted. He knew what she was talking about and understood they wouldn't be found on any shelf. The cookies she wanted were the ones he'd made months ago _from scratch_ for one of Julia's kid's birthday. There were so many children that he had to think of which one it was. Not Seth the douche bag, he thought; this was one of the little kids. Luke and Hunter were too old, and it wasn't Elizabeth, Cuddy's sole niece, as House was sure it was one of the boys. So that meant… (Who was left?) the party had been for Declan, who was obsessed with Cookie Monster. For his birthday, everyone had been asked to bring cookies. House had baked (Cuddy had been forbidden to, as poisoning everyone would make for a bad time), and the party, consisting of fifteen kids high on sugar, had sucked. But Rachel had had fun, if a Cuddy-controlled amount of cookies, and apparently she'd liked what he'd made enough to remember it all this time later.

Truth be told, he didn't feel like baking. He _could_ cook, but he had never enjoyed it. It was just less painful than eating some of the things Cuddy made. As a result, House wasn't hoping to bake. Still it was a good bargaining chip.

"Are you going to do your homework today without complaining?" he asked.

She nodded her head. "Uh huh."

It was probably a lie, but he accepted her word anyway. "Fine. We need to get strawberries then."

"And then are we done?"

"I hope so." He said that but even then realized this wasn't _that_ bad. It was actually pretty nice as far as errands went. Last week he'd been so frustrated to lose his patient, but right now, it didn't seem so bad. Balance felt both tangible and desirable. Letting Rachel pick out the packs of strawberries to buy, he could see then that he'd overreacted. He'd been fighting with Cuddy for absolutely nothing.

Without hesitation he pulled out his cell phone. Rachel was evaluating the fruit as though her life depended on it, so he had plenty of time to send Cuddy a text message. His fingers carefully hitting the keys on his screen, he wrote: _Sorry for the past week. I'm an idiot. You were right_.

The second he sent it to her, Rachel was interrupting. "What about these?" she asked, holding three containers of strawberries. "Are they good?"

"Well, let's see." He looked at the plastic boxes of berries one by one. "That's good…. This one looks all right." The first two were fine, and he placed her selections in the part. The third, however, looked like there might be a moldy piece of fruit inside. Telltale reddish juice pooled at the bottom of the container. "Can we find one better than this?"

Rachel was upset, heartbroken even. As she had done nothing wrong, he couldn't understand why she would feel that way. But the emotion in her gaze suggested that she took this rejection very seriously. He couldn't play it off with a joke then, couldn't ignore it either.

"It's fine," he told her reassuringly. "We can get a different one." Having placed the container back on the pile of produce, he looked her over properly once more. His words had had little effect. He reached over and stroked her plump cheek. "Sweetie, it's okay." Coming from him, affection still didn't sound completely natural. But he was getting better at it; at least, it no longer felt as awkward as it would have months ago. "We'll find what we're looking for, and then we'll go make cookies."

She appeared less comforted than he liked, proving that this was more than a fear of being denied dessert for picking out bad fruit. This was shame for having disappointed him in some way. He suspected that telling her she hadn't would have little effect on her. Like her mother, Rachel was not inclined to listen to him.

Quickly he looked for a new box of strawberries that he could use to change tactics. When he found one, he held it out for her inspection. "What about these? Do they look okay to you?"

She cautiously gave the berries a once over, as though she were wary of the test before her. "Uh huh," she eventually said.

"Then I think we should get them and get out of here," he said, dropping the fruit into the cart.

She didn't respond, but whatever failure she'd felt about the strawberries slowly was forgotten. By the time they were in the parking lot once more, she seemed in good spirits. In a better mood than when he'd first picked her up, House decided, as he started putting groceries into the trunk. He was too focused on what he was doing to notice if she were smiling or not. But he could hear her humming to herself a song he didn't recognize and the scuffs of her sneakers on the asphalt as she danced in place. It was annoying, sure, but it also meant that she was happier, something he wanted her to be if he were going to help her with her homework. At least if she started out pleasant, it wouldn't be as miserable.

For both of them.

He noticed though, as he wedged the few plastic bags of groceries he had between the odds and ends of his trunk like some lame version of a Tetris game, that Rachel had gone silent once more. He didn't think anything of it, mostly because he was relieved to not have to listen to her off-key singing anymore. After a moment, however, he wondered what she was doing. Curiosity not concern made him look to the left where she had been standing expectantly only seconds ago. There was no reason to think that she wouldn't be there when he turned his head. As he glanced over, he could practically hear the whining for cookies in his head.

But there was nothing but quiet to greet him.

Because she wasn't there.

Although horror should have been his first emotion, it was not. His initial reaction was that Cuddy was going to kill him. To be fair, that was the mental response he had to many, many, _many_ of his choices. With his job and the way he tried to do things, the implications that had on his personal life were undeniable. And only pain could come from ignoring how all of this would affect his girlfriend. But that thought alone no longer scared him. They'd agreed a long time ago: he would try not to go too far and without consideration for her, and she wouldn't try to hold him back unnecessarily or punish him (much) for his risk taking. It was perfect in theory, less so in reality. Yet they'd made enough progress that Cuddy being mad didn't instantly scare him.

Then suddenly House was terrified. His eyes had instinctually located Rachel. She was one row over in the parking lot – alone, thankfully. But there was no relief, because she was walking away from him still.

With purpose, with her head bowed, she was moving further and further and quickly, not paying any attention to the cars in the parking lot.

House felt sick to his stomach, but there was no time to vomit up the knot forming deep in his gut like he wanted to. He didn't even think about grabbing his cane, which was currently hooked on the lip of the trunk.

He just _ran_.

If his thigh hurt (and it must have on some level), he didn't notice. Getting to her before something happened was all he cared about. He opened his mouth to scream her name, but he was too focused on stopping her to hear if he actually said anything.

Because of his shouting or by sheer luck, Rachel stopped right at that moment. It must have been luck, because she didn't look back at him – or even pay the slightest bit of attention to him sprinting towards her. Only when he was behind her, her body crouched on the ground, did she look up and notice him.

They were _two_ rows of cars away from where he had parked.

It _enraged_ him.

"What the _hell_ are you doing, Rachel?" he shouted. If part of him were worried about scaring her, there was no need. She seemed more surprised at his reaction; she hadn't caught on that he was mad, and ignorant, she started to look away from him. Her attention elsewhere, it only made him angrier.

"Hey!"

That got her attention, but she offered no apology as she craned her head upward to look at him. "House, you hafta help." She sounded upset.

He didn't listen. "Get up _now_. We're going home."

"But there's a doggy. He's –"

He cut her off by picking her up. It was as if she knew there was no point trying to talk while being admonished. But it was precisely that depressed surrender that gave him pause. She was wrong – _very wrong –_ but she looked defeated and yearning, quietly begging him to listen to her.

And though he knew the point was _not_ to give her what she wanted, she hadn't earned it, he couldn't bring himself to ignore her when she looked like that.

No doubt Rachel sensed this. "Please," she cried. "Please do something." She was on the verge of tears, squirming in his arms. She was desperate, but he needed to make sure this wasn't a lie concocted to get out of trouble.

All right, that sounded a little absurd, but his mind was scattered, trying to understand what had just happened and why and how he was going to explain this to Cuddy and hardest to accept of all, it seemed, that Rachel was _okay_. She hadn't been hurt.

Nonetheless, his voice remained purposely gruff. "Dog? Where's the dog? If that's –"

"Under car! Something's wrong him." And then she dissolved into a series of wails that were too sad to not humor.

"You want me to look under the car?" he asked to get her attention. He didn't want to be the guy holding a crying child in his arms in the parking lot.

"Yes!"

He grimaced, gave in. "All right." She looked up in surprise, bright blue eyes wide. As she realized he was going to listen to her, her face gradually donned a look of relief. Thankfully she shut up.

At that point, House resigned himself to putting her down. He wasn't in pain, but his thigh quivered, and it would only be a matter of time before he would pay for the unusual exertion.

It wasn't that he feared dropping her. The issue was far more self-centered than that. Bending down with the added weight might hurt _him_ by placing extra work on his already overly taxed leg. And he would do anything to avoid that.

But there were risks to consider when setting her down. If there wasn't a dog under the car, if she'd really done a great job at lying, there was nothing to stop her from taking off again. He would like to say she had more common sense than that, but she'd already proven otherwise. Bolting was now something he had to believe she would do again.

And if there were a dog? Then what? House wasn't convinced he knew what to do. Obviously there was no owner around, he thought while beginning the arduous task of getting on his knees. Anyone with the dog would have chased after it when it escaped. Also, Rachel would have hesitated to follow when an adult was handling the situation.

(Nevertheless, he told her then, "You stay right here.")

That didn't really matter though in the context of things. If there were a dog with no owner around, all that was important was knowing what to do with the creature. Half-heartedly he hoped Rachel was lying. That would at least be simpler to deal with.

But as he leaned forward, hands on the hot asphalt, he could tell he wasn't going to get what he wanted. His head cocked to the side, he could hear the animal even before he saw it. The small space between the car and the pavement seemed to amplify the sound of the dog's panting, which came in quick and harsh intervals.

Before he even saw the creature, House could tell in that noise that something was wrong. But it wasn't until he caught sight of the dog that he understood how bad the situation really was. It no longer became a question of what to do. There was only one choice to be made.

The dog needed help.

Its fur where it hadn't been stripped away or obscured by jaggedly torn flesh was slick with blood and dirt. There was no way of telling what actual color the dog might be, what personality it might have without such grievous wounds. But with them, the dog was an excited and terrified mess. It was large; that much House _could_ tell. Even so, it had managed to crawl underneath the car, its big body curled up in a shaking ball. Its large head drooped low in submission… or maybe the loss of blood was making the animal light-headed. Both possibilities seemed equally likely.

House didn't take that as an invitation to reach underneath and grab the dog. Regardless of the injuries to the rest of its body, yellow-brown eyes were narrowed on him, silently assessing if he were to be yet another to inflict pain on its already battered and brutalized body. House wasn't willing to risk being hurt himself if the dog decided he couldn't be trusted.

Pulling away from the car, he knew his first priority was Rachel. She would never respect him or love him if he walked away from an animal in need. But at the same time, he had to keep her safe.

Before he could even open his mouth to talk to her, she begged, "Do something."

He rolled his eyes. "Calm down. I'm going to."

"That's not what it looks like."

The seriousness of the situation was forgotten as he felt himself transported by her tone. She was being a brat, sure, but all he could see staring back at him haughtily was Cuddy. As angry as he could have been, maybe even _should_ have been, he was too amused for that.

Knowing that saying any of this out loud would be pointless, he stuck to the matter at hand. Rachel needed him to do that. She was already nearly in tears again. He needed to stay on point if he wanted her to trust him… have respect for him

"I'm gonna coax the dog out, all right? But before I do that, I need you to promise me you won't try to touch the dog."

Rachel didn't like that. "But I wanna pet –"

"I know. I _know_. But the dog's hurt, and you might want to make him feel better, but right now, he needs a doctor. And I don't want him to bite you."

"He's not gonna bite me," she insisted.

"Well, we're not gonna take a chance." He was firm, making it clear that she _wasn't_ going to be touching that animal at all. "I mean it."

"Fine." She pouted bitterly.

He looked her over for a moment as though her face would reveal any plans to disobey. But upon considering the situation, he decided when the dog came out, she would _not_ want to touch it. She'd seen it wandering through the parking lot, probably, and had decided to follow it without much thought. And though she was aware on some level that something wasn't right, she more than likely hadn't gotten a good look at the dog to understand just how poor the dog's condition was. When she saw him in the light, he doubted she would want to touch something covered in blood. He hoped she wouldn't.

But he supposed there was no real way of knowing without actually doing the thing and seeing what happened.

That thought hardly comforted him.

Fully dreading how this would go, he turned back around to face the car and leaned over to look at the dog once more. It hadn't moved, and it clearly wasn't going to come out without some encouragement. If they'd been near the car still, that would have been easy. He would have simply lured the dog with food. But they weren't anywhere near that, and House didn't think he'd be able to walk there and back and there _again_ without becoming exhausted. The adrenaline was wearing off, and he could feel the pain making itself known.

Having made no move to save the dog, he paused then to reach into his pocket for the pills he desperately wished would turn into Vicodin. Even though it didn't, he still took it, bracing himself for Rachel's complaints that he wasn't doing anything. She remained quiet however. She might have wanted him to help, but thankfully she seemed to understand that he wasn't capable of doing that if he were in pain.

As soon as he thought that, his sense of relief vanished; he didn't like that she knew he needed pills – almost as much as he resented needing the drug to begin with. He could deal with his physical limitations fine. He'd never be able to do things like teach Rachel how to ride a bike for example, play ball with her in the backyard. But then Cuddy would want those moments for herself anyway, and his own father had done those things with him, and what had _that_ amounted to, really? No, House didn't mind that part. But being weak when Rachel needed him to be anything but that made him feel like such a failure. It _killed_ him, actually, to be a man who railed against all limitations only to find himself losing to something as familiar to him as his own body. The irony that he was a _doctor_ who could not cure himself was not lost on him. It just didn't make any of this better.

No, self-pity wouldn't help either. He recognized fully that there was nothing to be done about the situation, hate it as he did. And while the feeling didn't go away on its own, he forced himself to ignore it and focus on the dog instead.

To do that though, he realized he needed to put the drugs away so he could have both his hands free to grab the mutt if need be. But it was just as he started to cram the pill bottle back into his pocket that he saw a way to coax the dog out. Just because he didn't have food with him didn't mean the dog knew that.

House rummaged through the plastic container for another tablet. Fingers pinched together around the drug, he reached under the car and held it out. Perhaps the dog knew he wouldn't actually get the "treat," because he showed no interest.

House wasn't ready to give up on this tactic. It would work; he hoped it would anyway. He just needed to find a way to make the pill seem more enticing. Since there was nothing he could do about the medicine's taste and appearance itself, the only thing he had left to work with was the way he presented it. He went for the obvious methods of attracting a dog's curiosity.

Clicking his tongue, he tried to beckon the dog toward the medication. "Come on, boy. Come on." It took a few variations of this – a whistle, some kissing noises, a couple softly uttered words to try to convince the dog that he had something good in his hand.

Finally, the animal took note. Its enormous pink tongue licked over its bloodied lips, and it slowly started to crawl toward House. It couldn't stand and walk underneath the car, which gave House time to inch his hand out from beneath the vehicle and start the tenuous process of standing up.

There was no need to hurry. The dog couldn't move any faster than he could. Being injured and in a tight space, the animal took more time to come to a stand next to the car. But that was okay. House used those few precious moments to adjust the height of his hand, so that, even if the dog attempted it, it wouldn't be able to reach the pill.

Once standing however, the dog showed little interest in the medicine. It didn't try to take the drug out of his hand at all. He wasn't complaining however. The dog might not have wanted to eat, but it wasn't trying to get back under the car either.

"We should try to get him to move toward the car," House suggested, turning his head to look at Rachel. He expected her to be afraid. With the dog at its full height, it was impossible to ignore its size. It was easily taller than Rachel, its head larger (or at least it seemed like it) than a basketball. Even the way it breathed was indicative of its heft; instead of a dog panting, it was beginning to sound like a warthog, low and heavy. It would have been understandable for her to be scared. So he was surprised that she didn't cower in fear when almost face-to-face with a bloody, monstrously sized animal.

Sure, she looked nervous, but he thought that had more to do with the dog needing help, but because she was frightened of it.

"Okay," she said enthusiastically. "And then we'll fix his –"

"Yeah, we'll get him help," he said dismissively. That wasn't the important part right now. "But we have to go _slowly_." _That_ was what she needed to keep in mind. He tried to emphasize the words so that it would stick with her, so that she wouldn't run across the parking lot and get hit by a car or startle the dog into attacking her.

That reminded him of a more pressing concern. "I don't care how tempting it is, you don't touch the dog, all right?"

She rolled her eyes like he was really stupid. "I know."

Without comment, he turned back to the dog. It looked ready to fall over. House thought about clapping his hands to get the animal's attention, but he was concerned that that might startle the creature. So he settled for talking to the dog in a friendly, high-pitched voice.

He felt like Wilson.

"Come on. Let's go to the car. Come on, dog. Come with us," House said, far more uncomfortable with his words than Wilson would have been in this situation. From Wilson, this would have all sounded very natural, as gentleness was something he had in spades. Encouragement wasn't hard for him in the same way it was for House, though he was determined to be as good, as sensitive as he could be.

For a moment, House was sure the dog would turn and run. _He_ would if he were the animal and a stranger who clearly strained to be friendly was trying to get him into a car. Yet it worked.

The dog started lumbering toward House and then followed him as they inched their way across the parking lot in the late spring heat. He knew that if he were really Wilson, he would believe that the dog had somehow understood that he wanted to help. But House would never be his friend, if only because his beliefs convinced him that the dog was dumb and delirious and following out of illness or following because it was simply aware that it had no other options, that it was either go with the stranger or _die_ beneath someone's car. What choice was there, really?

Thankfully the parking lot wasn't incredibly busy. There were better things to do on a Friday afternoon than buy groceries, House supposed. Of its own volition, the question came to him, asked if he could remember the last time he had gone out with Cuddy on a Friday evening to do something that didn't include colleagues or family. There was a vague memory of a night, but he couldn't recall when that had been. And that was when he realized – they'd never celebrated their anniversary when it had happened this year… although that date was debatable (and he _would_ debate it, later).

He was too concerned with getting across the parking lot to give that much thought now. All he had to do was imagine how he currently looked to know that they needed to get to the car as quickly as possible.

But of course, moving with any speed was out of the question. He could keep his balance without the cane, but he had to be careful how he moved. He was already hurting, and if he took a wrong step, he could easily make the pain that much worse. As much as he didn't want to be seen with a bloodied dog, didn't want to deal with the potential implications, the harm in rushing seemed far more probable than what would happen if someone saw him and called the police.

Regardless, it wasn't as though the dog could hurry along. It could keep up with House and even seemed like it could go faster. But it didn't look like it would last long going at a quicker pace. Each step it took left a bloody paw print on the asphalt. There was too much at stake to push forward. They would have to go slowly.

When they finally returned to the car, House didn't bother to grab his cane. He could use the vehicle to help guide him around to the passenger side. With the dog following him, there was only one loose end to tie up.

"Get in the car," he told Rachel. "I don't want to hear a word about the damn booster seat either." Instantly the warning felt like an unnecessary one. She was desperate to help the dog, so much so that she wouldn't do anything to impede that process, not even to complain about the seat that she hated. He felt bad then, like he had done something wrong, but there was nothing he could do about it now. She wouldn't appreciate him taking the time to apologize anyway. So he focused instead on getting the dog into the car.

He opened the door in front of him, hoping that the animal would somehow understand what he wanted. That was a lot to expect of something this ill, but the last thing House wanted to do was to have to bend over and pick up the dog. God forbid he need a rabies vaccine; Cuddy wouldn't touch him for a very long time if it came to that.

Amazingly enough, he didn't need to grab the dog. The space between the glove box and the passenger seat was small and probably hot, thanks to the heat. But there must have been something enticing about the tiny area, because the dog was quick to climb up into it. Perhaps it thought the space would be a good place to hide. There was no chance of the dog being hidden, obviously. Its back foot left a crimson smear on the frame of the car as it had hopped inside.

House scowled at the sight. He could force a fellow to wash the car off when they screwed up; he didn't care about the blood. But it _would_ bother Cuddy.

That stupid dog, he thought, shutting the door carefully so it wouldn't startle the bloody creature in front of him. Cuddy had taken the time last night to lecture him on the minute details of what she wanted him to do, and thanks to the animal, he was altering those plans. Depending on how long it took at the vet's, to make the cookies and dinner, it was a distinct possibility that House wouldn't get to homework time with Rachel, something Cuddy would not be happy about. And he wasn't even going to touch her reaction to Rachel being a witness to an injured dog. _That,_ above all else, would upset her, and House wouldn't have any defense, any way to ease his girlfriend's distress.

He stumbled around the side of the car and bitterly shoved the empty cart away from him. It noisily rolled down the parking lot aisle, coming dangerously close to the bumpers of other vehicles, but House didn't care. Failure aggravated him with increasing ease. The longer the matter of this guardianship was drawn out, the less patience he had for anything going wrong. He had never been a perfectionist, but when that was what Cuddy wanted from him, he desperately needed to give it to her.

Today though, he would let her down. And she would let him know it, he told himself, as he unhooked his cane from the trunk before slamming the door shut.

When it came to Rachel, Cuddy would never let him forget his failures.

* * *

They sat in an exam room, waiting for the veterinarian to come explain to them what had happened to the dog and what she planned on doing about it. Almost as soon as House had parked the car, they'd whisked the animal away. A nurse had ushered him into this room to wait, perhaps under the impression that this was their pet or that he cared much about the thing at all. House had had half a mind to leave right then and there, but Rachel wouldn't be satisfied until she knew the dog was all right, so he could only wait.

In the meantime, he had to figure out what outcome he wanted. If the thing died, Rachel would cry, and Cuddy would be unhappy. If the dog lived, Rachel would want it, would throw a fit to get it. Since he was the one here, he would have to deny her, and then Rachel would be the Cuddy mad at him.

He didn't want that.

Cuddy seemed determined to make him a better partner, a disciplinarian, a foil to make her look good. Part of him would like to make her happy, to be exactly what she wanted.

This was too much though, and he though he would have preferred a dead dog to being the one who denied Rachel what she wanted.

It was easy to see at that moment how… _soft_ he'd become.

If he thought about it, it seemed like an unexpected turn of events. There was a sense of surprise in the idea as it crossed his mind. But then it really wasn't shocking, was it? He loved Cuddy, and Rachel was a big part of her life. How could some of that love not transfer over to Cuddy's daughter? When they lived together? It was the most natural development possible. Yet there was still a piece of him that recognized how bizarre it all was.

He was trying to be someone's father? He who could barely tolerate anyone? It was a weird reality, like he'd been sucked into a funhouse mirror where everything was familiar but nothing seemed right.

But this _was_ right, he corrected. He couldn't forget that just because this seemed in conflict with the person he thought he was or assumed he would be at this point in his life.

"What are you thinking about?" Rachel asked quietly, pulling him through the looking glass once more. She'd been sitting on his lap without making a sound or squirming on top of him impatiently. She'd been so good he'd forgotten she was even there.

Well, that wasn't exactly true. Her small hands were running along his stubble and had been for quite some time. But she was always doing that when his face was in reach. If he'd fallen asleep on the couch and she found him, if he was carrying her somewhere, somehow her fingertips found her way to his face so she could relish the novelty of the scratchy hair against her palms. He no longer paid attention to when she did it actually.

"You," he answered honestly after a moment.

She seemed interested in his response. "What about me?"

He lied, because the truth wouldn't make sense to her. "How lucky you were _not_ to be hit by a car today."

Her hand dropped to her side as her face became awash with shame. "Sorry…." She said something after that, but the words were uttered too quietly, were too mumbled for him to understand.

"It's okay." There was an awkward pause before he kissed her on the top of her head. She leaned into him, her expression suggesting she was only slightly reassured. He had every intention of fumbling through words of comfort, even though she had been wrong to run across the parking lot like she had. He'd wanted to let her know she'd been an idiot; he hadn't aimed to make her as ashamed as she was.

The door to the exam room opened, however, stopping him from saying much of anything to Rachel. A woman slipped inside, her dark hair tucked into her white coat like she'd just thrown it on to look more professional, less harried.

"Stay where you are," she said automatically, not realizing that there was absolutely no chance of House standing up to greet her. Rachel was perched on his left thigh comfortably, but he was doing his best to keep her from coming anywhere near his right. Running had been the only course of action, but he was paying the price nonetheless.

The veterinarian moved to stand in front of them, her back leaning against a metal examination table. "I'm Dr. Carson. You brought in the bloody dog?"

He nodded his head. "Greg House."

"And who's this?" she asked in an intentionally but ineffectively sweet voice. She was trying to capture Rachel's attention, but that didn't work out the way she wanted. Rachel just nervously buried her face in his shoulder. The move took House a little by surprise, as she wasn't exactly what he would describe as _shy_. But it had been a long day, and she wasn't fond of doctors, being at that age where visiting the pediatrician still created fear – especially for Rachel.

A hand on her back to rub it, he said to the doctor, "This is Rachel."

Carson smiled understandingly but didn't comment. "Well, Greg, Rachel, I'm happy to tell you that the dog is looking like he has a fighting chance. As I'm sure you noticed, he's lost a considerable amount of blood, so it's good you were able to bring him in when you could."

"Car accident?" House asked out of curiosity.

Instead of an answer though, he got an intrigued look on Carson's face, her eyebrows knitted in confusion. "What makes you say that?"

"We found the dog in a parking lot."

"So it's not your pet?"

"No."

She seemed relieved. "No, the dog was not hit by a car. Given the nature of the wounds, we're confident in saying that they could only come from another dog. Of course, we can't say whether the dogs were intentionally fought or not."

House considered what the more likely scenario was, then realized he didn't care much. There might have been a puzzle before him, but it wasn't interesting in the least. That didn't stop the vet from going into detail of the dog's injuries. It was a sanitized report for Rachel's sake, yes, but somehow there was enough information in Carson's words to give House an unattractively _long_ account of the dog's state. Antibiotic injections into the wounds, fluids to help re-hydrate the dog, possible surgery on one of the dog's shoulders, and on and on….

He nodded his head every now and then, which he knew just encouraged her to continue. He wanted her to shut up, but with Rachel here, things were different. For all of the effort he'd made to ignore what others thought of him, to rail against their expectations, it meant nothing when it came to Rachel. Anyone else could think what they wanted about him. He didn't want her to think badly of him. If that meant he had to pretend to care about an animal, that was what he would do.

"Anyway," Dr. Carson said after a while. "I'm sorry to keep you. Thank you for bringing the dog to us. We'll take it from here."

House fought the urge to get up and leave. She was giving him permission to go, and it went without saying that he wanted to, but it wouldn't look good. Running out of the room, looking like he didn't care – it wasn't an option.

Pretending to be interested, he asked, "You'll keep me informed on how the dog is doing?"

She seemed surprised by the question. "If you would like, I suppose. Am I to take this to mean that you might be interested in _owning_ the dog if…."

There were words in the qualifier, but House was no longer listening to her. He was too busy meeting Rachel's expectant gaze. As much as she hadn't understood, she had paid enough attention to know that there was a discussion going on about who would claim the dog as a pet. And naturally, her eyes wide and on him, silently pleading, she had decided the answer to Carson's question had to be, needed to be, _must be_ yes.

He chose a more noncommittal approach. "That's… _complicated_," he said simply. Truthfully it wasn't. Cuddy would never allow a pet in her home, not with their schedule and Rachel's asthma. But House wasn't going to say that now, not when he was in pain and had no interest in dealing with the fit Rachel would throw.

Thankfully, Carson understood. "I know how that can be. My sons have been dying for a hamster, but I just don't like rodents, so –"

"Right," he said, cutting her off. "Same thing here, so if I could finance the dog's treatment in exchange for confirmation that the dog is doing well, so that _she's_ okay…." He gestured with his head to signal that he meant Rachel. "I would appreciate it."

And there it was – the irritation he'd been trying to pretend didn't exist. What he'd said wasn't in itself that bad, but somehow he'd managed to make it sound much ruder. Well, that had always been one of his talents, he supposed.

Apologizing wasn't an option. He didn't care enough to seem sincere, so there wasn't any point. There also wasn't any point in trying to pretend he hadn't behaved the way he had. It was clear that the veterinarian had noticed his tone. So he went silent and waited for her to respond.

"I think we can agree to that," she replied coolly. "I'll show you to the front desk, so we can handle payment, and then we can send you on your way."

He nodded his head before telling Rachel, "Hop down. It's time to go." Without offering her reassurance that the dog was okay, he worried that she would refuse to do as instructed. That was what would normally happen if she didn't completely understand what was going on. She was like Cuddy in that way; if he were desperate to move forward, they would dig their heels in until he went through the painstaking process of explaining why he wanted to do what he wanted to do.

It was the pain guiding his thoughts, he realized. That wasn't how he felt, not really, he reminded himself, and pushed the darkness away before it had a chance to dig its claws into him.

And in the end, he was wrong. If he'd expected Rachel to make a fuss, she did the opposite. This time, for whatever reason, Rachel quietly listened without uttering a single word much less a complaint.

A quick glance at her though told him that she had either not napped at school or needed a snack to elevate her blood sugar. She looked tired, a little pale as well, although that might have been the fluorescent lighting, which was making him look just as sickly. Then again, he _was_ feeling ill, thanks to his leg, which was becoming more of a problem with each passing moment.

When they got into the hallway, House scooped Rachel into his arms so he could talk to her quietly. That made the pain for him worse, and the second he had the extra weight to contend with, he regretted it. But what other choice did he have? Cuddy would never forgive him if something happened. He wouldn't want her to. "You feel okay?"

"I'm hungry," Rachel complained.

"Can you wait until we get to the car?" He wasn't sure how good the groceries were, now that they'd been in the heat for at least forty-five minutes. But there was probably some juice he could open up to give Rachel a small boost until he could get an early dinner into her. Rachel nodded her head. "Okay. We'll be quick."

He was true to his word. Carson had taken her sweet time explaining what was wrong with the dog, but the woman who handled the front desk was far less friendly and therefore much more efficient, which House liked. Afterwards, he'd carried Rachel to the parking lot before being forced to put her down. She whined a little at the move, but it was clear that she understood it wasn't by choice. She'd refrained from being a complete ass about it anyway. Trudging behind her, he was relieved when they got to the car. He could at least get them home now.

A few strawberries in Rachel's belly and a Vicodin tablet House had hidden in the glove box in _his_ later, he drove them home. He'd forgotten about the Vicodin in the car before. It wasn't supposed to be there; he'd thought he'd thrown it out years ago when he'd given it up, when he'd agreed with Cuddy that he should only have the emergency stash at home and his apartment. But he'd been desperate enough to search his car for it while Rachel unintentionally smeared her face red with berry juice. He'd nearly cried at his luck of finding a stray pill still in the car.

Surely to Cuddy's inevitable dismay, he stopped at a pizza shop on the way back and grabbed dinner. She'd be pissed about that. Well, not pissed exactly, but she had this idea in her head that he would do anything to make Rachel like him even if it weren't for her own good. And though Cuddy wasn't so vain as to care about her daughter's weight, the fact was Rachel didn't need the meat lover's pizza House had purchased – no more than he did with the belly that had seemed to get a little larger this last year. Cuddy wouldn't, he corrected, be _mad_, but his actions would be worthy of a conversation… which would probably lead to a fight, as it often did. So he supposed the end result was the same.

But today, she would have to contend with the fact that he had no other choice. He'd planned on a nice dinner of tofu with broccoli and roasted squash. Yet there was no way he could cook now. The Vicodin was working, but if he didn't want to keep taking it, he needed to be off his feet.

He was disturbingly close to forgetting that fact by the time they got home. As he pulled into the garage, he could feel the drug in his fingertips, in his toes, that sweet delicious glaze of euphoria beginning to work his nerve endings.

It didn't used to be like this. Before he could take Vicodin and feel nothing. It would barely do anything to ease his pain toward the end. His tolerance had dropped since then, and now on the rare occasion he indulged, that initial feeling was dangerously nice. As if proving his own point, he didn't even realize how much he was savoring the sensation until Rachel asked, "Can we get out now?"

He shook his head, eyes catching sight of the smeared dog blood on the glove box he'd searched mindlessly through only minutes ago. He was trying to clear his thoughts, but now all he could see was the visual of him, desperate and in pain, ignoring the blood of a strange animal in the hopes of getting some sort of relief and how it must have looked to Rachel. Suddenly he could only taste the chalky bitterness in his mouth, feel the awkward weight of the drug in his belly. The image of his actions made him sick, and an unbroken refrain popped into his head: _You are screwing this up. You are no good for her. You don't deserve this chance. _

"Yes," he said shakily, not so much for her benefit, but because he needed something to abate the loathing inside of him. Unbuckling his seat belt, he told her, "Get out and head inside. I'll get the food."

He didn't feel like making the necessary trips from the car to the kitchen and back to bring in the pizza and the groceries. Nor did he have much energy to unpack the warm food and put it away, but he did. As Rachel happily dunked her pizza in a puddle of mustard, he forced himself to at least do that much. If Wilson were here, he would no doubt suggest that House was doing this as a way to punish himself for his behavior. The extra effort required on his leg, the pain that was pushing its way through the Vicodin now – that was all designed to hurt him for the act of caving so spectacularly to the pull of the drug in front of the child he claimed to love. And maybe if Wilson were here, House would deny it. But since it was only a thought, one that he would never share with Cuddy if he could help it, there was no point in pretending like it was a lie.

He was punishing himself, sure.

This was what he deserved.

For her part, Rachel didn't seem upset, but that mattered little. She shouldn't have seen him behave that way... or the stupid dog, either. But there was no way House could have avoided the latter; it was an accident he couldn't have predicted. The drug use though. He should have never let that happen.

But he had.

And he didn't want to tell Cuddy about any of it, but rationally House knew that he had no choice. Given what Rachel had seen today, she would have nightmares about it. She was five years old. How could she not dream about the blood, the desperation to save that dog's life, the pain she'd been subjected to witness? Those moments would not be forgotten anytime soon. Eventually, even if he kept quiet, she would tell her mother. So he had to tell Cuddy first.

But if he did that, he was afraid of the consequences. If she knew just how unable he was of protecting Rachel, she would never let him file those papers. She would deny him the only thing he'd really wanted these last few months.

And he wouldn't even be able to fight her when she came to that conclusion, because it had been all his fault.

* * *

The evening languished onward with House twisting internally at the conversation he would have later that night. He tried to focus on Rachel's needs with a dedication that was nothing short of frantic in its intensity. He gave her her medication after dinner. They worked on her homework together, a task that he embraced with an almost comical amount of interest. Rachel looked at him like he was insane, but she settled down and did her work nevertheless. Actually, in spite of his anxiety, she didn't seem to notice it at all, that was until he was getting her ready for bed.

Things had been going well. She hadn't begged for a bubble bath with toys he would have to painstakingly pluck out once bath time was over. She didn't resist getting into her pajamas or show signs that she would fall asleep before Cuddy got home. Technically Rachel should have been in bed twenty minutes ago, but Cuddy had called to say that she was on her way, and House knew everyone (mostly him) would benefit if Cuddy got a few minutes with Rachel to make her happy. The gamble there was, of course, that Rachel would tell Cuddy everything that had happened, and Cuddy would be pissed at him. But he was willing to take the risk. If Rachel fell asleep before she could say anything incriminating, the moment had the potential to soften Cuddy up.

For a while, Rachel looked like she would be able to do exactly what she needed him to do. Then she asked, "Why are you sad?" They were lying in her bed together, her hands once more on his beard.

He looked over in her direction. "I'm not sad."

She moved around underneath her covers. "You look –"

"I'm tired. That's all."

"Is it cause of the puppy?"

"No," he said, the word mumbled because her fingers had strayed near his lips. "You're gonna give me a rash if you keep that up."

"I don't care," she nearly sang in response.

"Oh. Okay."

She didn't say anything back, and he was willing to let them fall into silence. After all, he needed Rachel to be awake for Cuddy; he didn't need her to be conscious enough for a long conversation. Really, maybe it was for the best if she started to get a little quiet.

So naturally, she had to ask, not for the first time that evening, "The doggie's gonna be okay, right?"

"Hopefully." He struggled to say yes, unsure of how he should play this. On the surface, telling Rachel everything would be okay seemed like the right thing to do. But if the dog died – and Carson hadn't ruled out that possibility – would Rachel accuse him of lying? Would she blame him for misleading her? The fact was she might. And if she did that, he wasn't sure he knew how to get past that. It wasn't as though he had any experience in this area that he could model his own behavior after. He only had instinct, which told him that playing it carefully was all he could really do. "The vet's taking good care of it. We'll just have to see if –"

"If the doggie's okay, can we keep him?" Again, this wasn't the first time she'd asked to keep the dog, but this was the first time he hadn't had a way of redirecting her attention. He would have to give her a direct answer. "No."

"But –"

"Rachel, you know we can't have a dog."

He could feel her mood shifting. Instantly, she grew cold and rolled away from him. There was no doubt in his mind that she was irate. But just as he was about to say something to try to smooth the moment over, he heard Cuddy coming into the house.

There was no point in announcing that she was home. By the time he would have gotten the words out, Cuddy was _there_, pushing the door to Rachel's room open. Her briefcase was nowhere to be seen, probably having been discarded the second Cuddy had gotten inside. Her shoes were also missing, kicked off no doubt in a place House wouldn't see until he'd tripped over them. And she looked frazzled, yes, but relieved once she saw that Rachel was still awake.

"Hi, sorry I'm late," Cuddy whispered. Rachel was clearly mad enough at him that she wouldn't even turn his way when she heard her mother's voice. But Cuddy seemed to assume that Rachel was just tired, because she didn't seem concerned.

"Hi," House said, so that at least someone would say something in response. He started to get up but was caught by surprise when Cuddy leaned down to kiss him briefly on the lips.

"Thanks for waiting with her." That was what she said, but what she meant was thank you for keeping her awake and more importantly, that it was time for him to leave.

He had no intention of disagreeing with her. "No problem," he replied, standing up.

As he slowly plodded his way out of the room, he could feel Cuddy's gaze on his back. Based on his gait, she could probably guess that he had taken a Vicodin (and that he planned on taking another one as soon as he left her). But if she were worried about it, she didn't say anything to him then. She just focused her attention on Rachel, the two Cuddys chatting with one another animatedly as he closed the door behind him.

She stayed with Rachel for longer than he anticipated, about a half hour. Since he had made many mistakes today, that was more time than he would like them to spend together. If the kid ratted him out, it would be that much harder for him to defend himself to Cuddy. The ironic part about that was he didn't_ have_ a defense for his behavior. Cuddy had every right to be mad, but he didn't want her to be.

In the end, she didn't look angry when she finally came into the bedroom. Exhausted yes, but as she sat down on his side of the bed and leaned over to kiss him once more, she didn't look like a woman who had been given an account of the day. But the second she pulled away, he could see it.

The irritation in her eyes.

"A _dog_, House?"

As she got up to get undressed, she didn't elaborate on the matter. But she didn't need to. He understood the implication of the question:

She thought he'd promised Rachel a dog.

Rachel had lied.

_End (1/3)_


	2. Chapter 2

Author's Notes: Thanks to koryandrs, Melanie1121, newsession, KiwiClare, grouchysnarky, Aimee, dmarchl21, TheBeachWriting, jaybe61, LuciusDivius, red blood, kotofyr, Temo, Alex, Gemilh, IHeartHouseCuddy, Guest, and Abby for taking the time to read and review. I always love hearing your thoughts and appreciate that you would let me know how you feel. Also, thanks to paroulis for bidding on my help_lisa auction that inspired this fic.

_Disclaimer: The show isn't mine. _

**Gift of Chicken  
Chapter Two: Mother And Father**  
_By Duckie Nicks_

The interviews had been a complete failure, but seeing House and Rachel together made it seem less so. She was curled up on her side next to him, House looking like he might fall asleep there if allowed to do so. Cuddy was struck by the sweetness of the image.

Although he wouldn't believe her (and she hadn't given him much reason to), she _did_ want this.

Well… she was getting there. She _would_ get there.

She had to.

His relationship with Rachel was getting better, but it was occurring at the expense of the relationship he had with Cuddy herself. Things between them had never been _easy._ She loved him very much, but there had always been an edge to the way they dealt with one another, a rawness. Obviously neither of them had been turned off by that. Lately though, their dynamic had gone from borderline dysfunctional to barely functioning. He was frustrated with her, and she knew it. Her inability to give him what he wanted was making him bitter. She hated the way he looked at her sometimes – which was nothing compared to how it made her feel when she leaned down to kiss him and he acted as though he hadn't realized she was going to do that after a long day of work.

Rachel had her back turned to them, so she couldn't see the awkwardness all around her. Thankfully, she wouldn't get to, because House got up to leave. As Cuddy settled onto the bed, she noticed his exaggerated limp. Her tired mind fought to put the pieces together. Something was wrong, obviously, but what exactly she couldn't tell. And then it didn't matter, because Rachel rolled over and said excitedly, "Mommy!"

Cuddy forced herself to look away from him. Her back propped up against the headboard of Rachel's bed, she had to peer downward to see Rachel. "Hi, monkey," Cuddy said, reaching over to stroke Rachel's hair. As soon as Cuddy's fingers made contact though, she added with dismay, "Your hair's wet."

She didn't ask if House forgot to dry it; he was still close enough that he would hear the question, and she knew the answer was yes anyway. There was no point in starting a fight over it.

"I like it," Rachel told her. "It keeps my head cool."

"So you wanted this."

"Uh huh."

"Did you at least comb through –"

"_Mommy_," she whined loudly. It was hard to tell if the sound was meant to be a yes or a knee-jerk response to being asked questions when she was still awake past her bedtime. But when Rachel buried her face into Cuddy's chest, Cuddy figured the answer was probably the second. That didn't mean House _hadn't_ brushed Rachel's hair, of course; it simply meant that it no longer mattered. Because Rachel was going to be asleep soon enough, and Cuddy wasn't going to spend the last bit of the day policing House's ability to handle the smallest of tasks.

"I think my little monkey is sleepy," Cuddy said in a childish voice, hugging Rachel close to her.

Rachel instantly rejected the sentiment. "No, I'm not." She began to squirm and struggle against Cuddy.

Reluctantly, _very_ reluctantly, Cuddy let her go. To prove that she wasn't tired at all, Rachel sat up. But the effort was less effective than she probably wanted it to be, because she swayed a little, her eyes drooping just a fraction.

"What'd you do today?" Cuddy asked gently.

The reaction wasn't what she expected. Rachel seemed to get upset over it. She didn't start to cry or anything like that, but she looked as though if Cuddy said the wrong thing, tears would be there to greet her. The change in Rachel's demeanor was almost shocking in its suddenness. But before Cuddy could even ask what was wrong, Rachel answered the question.

"No work tomorrow," she pleaded. "Stay here."

Cuddy smiled sympathetically then explained, "Tomorrow's Saturday, Rachel. Mommy's going to be with you all day. Sunday too."

"Not always."

"No, not always," she agreed. "But this weekend, I'm not going anywhere without you, all right?"

Rachel was slightly mollified by that. Then she had to ask nervously, like she thought she was pushing her luck by asking, "House too?"

"House too."

"Good." And it was, because that fact made her obviously relieved.

"We're going to be here all weekend," Cuddy repeated, so that there was no doubt in Rachel's head. "Mommy and House want to spend time with you. We love you very much. Okay?"

"Okay." Without needing to be prompted, Rachel laid back down, her head on Cuddy's chest once more. The attempt to seem wide awake was a complete failure, and resigned to the sleep that would come soon, Rachel didn't seem to have much fight left in her.

"There we go. Come cuddle with me." Cuddy kissed her on the forehead and lightly ran her fingers through the already tangling strands of wet hair. "Did you have fun with House today after he picked you up from school?"

Rachel tiredly played with Cuddy's necklace for a moment before letting the silver strand slip between her fingers. She yawned, slowly nodded her head. "We was gonna make cookies, but then we didn't," she told her mother, the words slightly slurred.

"Oh," Cuddy said, trying to sound as understanding as she could. "That's too bad, but maybe we can make cookies this weekend sometime."

"My fault," Rachel murmured, fingers playing with the necklace some more.

"Why? What happened?" There was no concern in Cuddy's tone. Based on her experience and what she'd seen, she knew there were really only two reasons there were no cookies in the kitchen right now. Either House had been in pain and unable to bake or Rachel had been bad, and he'd punished – no. There was only option, she corrected.

Once upon a time, his inclination was to be annoyed or ambivalent when it came to everything Rachel did. Now he cared about her, but he wasn't ready or willing to take on that role of disciplinarian. House thought – well Cuddy knew what he assumed: that she was viewing this as some sort of competition, that she wanted him to handle every punishment so that _she_ looked good by comparison. And that was so stupid. Because here he was demanding that she file guardianship papers but he couldn't even prove to her that he would be able to _parent_ Rachel should something happen. No, not couldn't. He _wouldn't_.

Truthfully, they needed to talk about that. But it was hard to do that when she could sense how angry her prodding was making him. And she was afraid that she had made a mistake, giving him the opportunity to become Rachel's guardian. Whether he would be good or bad at it wasn't the issue. The fact that it seemed to be destroying the relationship he had with Cuddy _was_.

Not for the first time recently, she started to wonder if they were strong enough to get through this. Then she stopped, reminding herself that she was getting ahead of herself. The point was that he hadn't punished Rachel, that he hadn't made cookies, because he'd been in pain. Whatever else was going on, and there was quite a bit, was not relevant to the conversation right now. It was a rather inescapable issue, but Cuddy knew she needed to focus on Rachel, who had been explaining to Cuddy what had happened, even though Cuddy hadn't been listening.

"… and then we got the doggy and –"

"What?" Cuddy asked, definitely hearing Rachel refer to a dog.

Rachel's legs bumped against Cuddy's body, as Rachel shifted below the covers. The question had left her agitated, possibly on the verge of throwing a tantrum, because she was ready for bed. In an incredibly whiny voice, each syllable ending with something bordered on a squeal, Rachel repeated, "We got the doggy."

There was so much Cuddy wanted to ask. Surely, House had not gotten Rachel a dog. Sometimes he was quite capable of behaving like an idiot, but he wasn't _that_ stupid. He wouldn't do that, not when he had to be aware of how _off_ things had been lately. But by the same token, Rachel didn't look like she was lying. Of course, she mostly just appeared tired, but Cuddy thought there was honesty behind the desire for sleep. So that meant… she didn't even know what. She needed more information.

Unfortunately, Rachel wasn't in a position to give it. Cuddy could try, but what were the chances that Rachel would be able to offer any real answers when she was up way past her bedtime?

Knowing there was no point in even trying, Cuddy said in a quiet voice, "Okay. We can talk about it tomorrow. Why don't we just close our eyes for a little bit, all right?" She wouldn't tell Rachel to go to bed; there was always a chance that that would elicit some resistance. It wouldn't last long, of course. But Cuddy didn't want the last moments of the day to be filled with a fight. So she softly implied the only reasonable thing to do and held Rachel close to her as the little girl fell asleep.

It didn't take long. Rachel was content to be curled up against Cuddy, and it was only a matter of seconds before her eyelids began to droop. By the time three minutes had passed, she was asleep.

Cuddy didn't move to get up though. There was a good chance she'd wake Rachel up if she tried to leave immediately. Not that she needed a reason to stay close to Rachel, of course; if anything, she would have preferred to fall asleep here with her little girl in her arms. But House noticed everything, and he could be egotistical, and they weren't exactly getting along. So if she stayed, it could easily look like she was trying to avoid him. At least, he would believe that.

After another five minutes, Cuddy slowly and reluctantly forced herself out of Rachel's bed and down the hallway. When she found House, he looked… _high_.

He'd changed into his pajamas, but it was obvious he'd done more than get ready for bed. The nagging feeling that something had occurred that she didn't understand hit her once more. And until she knew what happened, she didn't know how to react. But when she went to kiss him again, she was overwhelmed with resentment.

Not toward him.

It wasn't his fault that he was in pain, and it wasn't completely his fault that their relationship was where it was. He wouldn't believe her, but she didn't blame him… entirely. Right now, mostly, she just felt annoyance for the complicated dynamic they found themselves in. When she pulled away from him, she tried to push the feeling aside, joking, "A _dog_, House?" The idea of it was so ridiculous she hoped it would ease her anxiety.

But as soon as she turned around to change, she sensed that her efforts had failed. She'd been too irritated to sound humorous, and she was assuming that he understood what Rachel clearly hadn't.

Sighing, Cuddy slowly unbuttoned her blouse, purposely trying to avoid taking it off frantically. Secretly she was more than prepared to lose skin if it meant getting out of the clothing, which seemed to have gotten tighter the longer the day had worn on. If she behaved that way though, it might come across as upset, and Cuddy didn't want to give House any more reasons to think that she was angry. As she balled the dirty shirt in her hand though, she understood: he didn't need any more reasons.

In her bra and skirt, she turned to look at him once more. Normally, if things between them were okay, he'd dramatically act like he was seeing the most stunning body in the world. He would make some remark about her breasts or her ass or maybe even both, depending on how tolerant he thought she would be of his crassness. But he was under the assumption that she was pissed off, so instead of telling her every way he wanted to have sex with her, he just stared at her like he couldn't believe what she was saying. Clearly on the verge of snapping at her, he had his jaw clenched and his eyes narrowed on her hatefully.

She ignored his mood while moving closer to him. Maybe it was stupid to do this. He wouldn't hurt her physically, ever. But he was looking for an opening, a reason to lash out at her, and perhaps she was giving him one when she asked, "Would you unzip my skirt for me?" She sat on the edge of the bed, butt facing him, so she couldn't see his reaction.

He didn't say anything, didn't even complain that she was sitting on part of the zipper and making his job harder. His fingers simply brushed along her lower back as he reached for the zipper.

"I know you didn't give her a dog," Cuddy clarified in a way that she hoped didn't sound forced.

"Oh, you figured that out, did you?" If she was doing her best to avoid a fight, he seemed to be pushing for the opposite. She sighed and angled her body so that she faced him more clearly. That just annoyed him further. "You want me to undo your skirt or –"

"I want you to talk to me."

"You mean you want an explanation."

She _did_, but he made it seem like she was accusing him of something. His reaction confused her; she hadn't started the conversation off right, not by any means, but he was furious. She didn't understand that. Then she remembered: he was in pain.

"Would a heating pad help?" she asked, changing tactics.

He wasn't prepared for that, so the "What?" he offered in response was far more aggressive than necessary.

"I know you're hurting. Tell me what I can do to make you –"

"Yeah, fine," he said, distracted and not really listening to her. "Get the pad."

She frowned but didn't say anything. It had been a while since she'd seen him like this, but there was no time to think about that now. Besides, any hesitation or judgment on her part would only upset him further.

As she headed to the bathroom to get the heating pad, she didn't consider if he'd behaved this way with Rachel. He wouldn't, and he _hadn't_, because he was lashing out like he'd been fighting acting this way all day. Now that Rachel was asleep, he could give into the feeling, even if it meant Cuddy was in the direct path of that anger. In any case, if House had lost his temper, Rachel would have said something – or House would have confessed. Since none of those things had happened, it was easy to believe Rachel had been spared. Cuddy had no reason to think otherwise.

She rummaged through the cabinets beneath the sink for the heating pad crammed somewhere inside. She cringed at the _mess_ that had somehow accumulated since she'd last looked in it this morning. The drawers had seemed fine then, but now when she _really_ needed something, she had to search for it. Cleaning plans already forming in her head, she nearly missed what she was looking for when her hands came upon it. She cringed at her mistake, dreaded what House would say if he knew what had just occurred.

Well, that wouldn't ever happen, she decided. And when she returned to him, it was obvious that he was in no position to notice something was off. One of his hands was balled into a fist but not in anger. His eyes were darting around the room, searching, like he was trying to find something he could hit to provide a distraction through new pain.

"Here we go. I found it." She pretended not to see what he was in the process of doing.

He didn't say anything, just took the pad from her when she got close to his side of the bed. She was wise enough to let him. She plugged it in, but he was in a state where it wasn't smart for her to try to put the heating pad on his thigh herself. He wouldn't react well to that, not when he was like this. And he proved that suspicion when she told him he could turn it on and he snarled, "Yeah, I understand how electricity works."

She was too tired to fight him. More importantly, she could tell that he was _looking_ for an argument. Whether that was just the pain or combined with general resentment for her, at this point, she couldn't say. But she certainly wasn't going to push back and find out. That might have seemed cowardly, but she wasn't afraid of what he might do. He was acting like a jackass, but he wouldn't do anything to her. If she wanted to avoid a screaming match, it was because she wasn't sure she could survive it tonight. They'd spent so much time lately at each other's throats. To get into another argument would be too much for her.

Determined to keep the peace, she wordlessly finished changing into her pajamas. As she took her dirty clothes to the laundry basket, she noted that House had settled down a little. He wasn't as calm as when she'd first come into the house, no, but this was a small step toward that. It seemed like the heating pad was helping to relax his muscles, at least, doing what the Vicodin wasn't apparently. Or was the Vicodin kicking in now? It didn't matter. She scrubbed the make up off her face and brushed her teeth, focusing on getting ready for bed instead of discussing things with House. That would come later, and when it did, she wanted to be able to fall asleep afterward without having to move. But since that was not happening any time soon, she wiled away some of the time by making tea for House.

He would complain about it, of course. As she poured the boiling water into a mug, she knew he would sneer the second she brought it to him. And he did, whining when she set the cup on his nightstand, "I don't like tea."

"I know, but it's good for muscle –"

"I don't want to be up all night," he said dismissively. He was still being disagreeable but far better natured about it.

"It's chamomile," she explained. "It'll help you sleep." He was unmoved, and she knew a losing battle when she saw one. "Well, it's there if you change your mind." She conceded before he could smartly point it out, "Not that there is a great chance of that happening."

His line taken, he had nothing to say while she crawled into bed next to him. They didn't speak for a long time after that. She felt that he needed to be the one to initiate a conversation.

Her patience was rewarded after another twenty minutes. She read a little bit out of the novel she kept by her bedside to pass the time, although she wasn't paying close attention to the text. Her focus was mostly on _him, _the book a mere cover for her concern. When he spoke then, she was relieved she didn't have to keep up the façade any longer.

"Sorry," he said suddenly with all the elegance and glumness that a child might apologize with. Cuddy didn't doubt that he meant it. It was just obvious that he was embarrassed by his own behavior. That was enough for her.

She shrugged and set her book aside. "It's okay. I've probably said worse to you recently." That wasn't entirely how she felt, but it was better to mention her mistakes than remind him of his own. For _now_ anyway, she told herself as she rolled over onto her side and laid her head down on his chest. Sometimes it would be best to focus on his problems….

"Well, you're meaner than I am." It was a joke, one she didn't find funny, but it meant he was relaxing a little – as did the arm he was putting around her waist. For lack of a better response, she stayed silent. But that just made him ask, "What? That piss you off?"

She lied. "_No_."

"Yeah, okay" was his sarcastic response.

"House. I'm not mad. I don't want to fight."

She couldn't tell if he became quiet, because she had convinced him or because he wanted to call attention to how agitated she sounded. All she knew was that she was too tired to care either way. Then it didn't matter, because he suddenly spoke up, _whined_:

"I didn't do anything wrong."

He sounded like a little boy who had been caught doing precisely what he was now denying. But she resisted the urge to assume he was guilty. He was _not_ a child, no matter how he was acting, and if he were behaving this way, it was because she had given him reason to feel pressured into defending himself automatically. She didn't want to believe that but…

To herself she could admit that it was true. She was turning him into this, making him bitter. He'd become accustomed to her support; work had trained him to believe that he could demand anything of her and she would eventually come around to the idea. Maybe she'd given him reason before now to think he could have the same carte blanche in their personal life. Until Rachel anyway. Cuddy's doubt wasn't something he was prepared for, and she couldn't make it go away any faster than he could accept why it was there, so they were here.

The frustration she'd felt earlier renewed itself easily, because this _was not_ what she wanted. A flicker of panic coursed through her body, making the hand on his chest instinctually cling to his t-shirt ever so slightly.

Quick to cover up the act, she let go and said, "I wasn't accusing you."

"You –"

"My daughter is telling me she has a dog. You're… in pain – like I haven't seen in years." She raised her head to look at him. "I don't blame you. I don't want to. But obviously something isn't right. If I could ask Rachel what happened, I would, but she's asleep and not exactly the most reliable person in this scenario. So that leaves you, and if you aren't telling me the truth, then what am I supposed to think?"

As soon as the words came out of her mouth, she regretted them. That wasn't how this conversation was supposed to go. She didn't want to sound threatening. But there was no time to take the words back.

"I don't answer to you _here_, Cuddy. _Don't_ treat me like –"

"I know that, and I'm trying to…." She stopped in defeat. Her approach wasn't working, and it wasn't going to until she apologized. "I'm sorry. You're right. I shouldn't talk to you like that." He looked her over carefully as though he couldn't be sure if she were telling the truth. "I know what we agreed," she explained, ready to convince him that she wasn't lying. "I just –"

"Regret it," he supplied.

She shook her head. "No. But I'm not used to it yet, this… sharing responsibility. You having as much of say as I do." She held up a hand before he could lob criticism her way. "I don't regret it, so please don't say that I do. I _don't_. I'm just… learning."

"We both are," he conceded. "But _you_ could be less annoying about it."

She resisted the urge to roll her eyes. "I'll work on that."

Perhaps he realized he couldn't demand any more from her. Or rather, he could make whatever demands he wanted, but she couldn't do any more than she already was. He had to know that, even if he didn't like it. For that reason, it didn't surprise her that he started talking a minute later.

"We went to the grocery store," he explained.

From that moment on, Cuddy paid close attention to the expressions she was making. Absolutely no part of her could seem judgmental or mad, whether she was or not. In the past month or so, she had taken for granted that he would dismiss her irritation with his part of their relationship the same way he did in every other aspect of their lives. But this mattered to him.

_Rachel_ mattered to him.

So it was stupid to think he would ignore any part of his family life. Cuddy was an idiot for ever believing that. And she knew now she had to be more considerate of that fact if she wanted to avoid complete disaster.

Oddly enough though, in spite of his hesitation to tell her what happened, he wasn't saying anything to upset her. He wanted to make Rachel a nice dinner. He'd agreed to make cookies for her because of that idiotic school and their unwillingness to adapt to Rachel's needs. Nothing about his actions there upset Cuddy, and for the life of her, she couldn't understand why he would think they would.

Then he started talking about the parking lot. Cuddy thought she remained in control when "Rachel" and "ran off" were used in the same sentence. What could have happened was upsetting, absolutely. But the fact was Cuddy had seen her daughter; Rachel was fine, and that soothed the fear Cuddy instinctually felt.

There was nothing though to make her feel better when he told her, in a way that seemed to be in response to the alarm she thought she had a hold on, "I ran after her."

She didn't process what he was saying right away. House didn't run. He couldn't. "What do you mean you…." When realization hit her, she couldn't finish the sentence. She was too horrified to say anything. What he had done... the pain he had put himself through, there were no words for that.

Over the years, she had come to have an understanding of just how torturous his thigh could be for him. She was familiar with the damaged muscle, the scar tissue, the way he tried to hide the depths to which he was willing to sink for the tiniest bit of hope that the pain would go away. Aside from House himself, she knew more about it than anyone else. And she couldn't possibly imagine what it had been like to chase after Rachel today, and she didn't want to. Unbidden though the image came to her, terrified her.

"Oh House." Her hands wanted to go to leg, as if it was in her power to make him feel any better. But her fingertips barely had to skim the heating pad before she stopped herself. He wouldn't appreciate her touching him, not now. Maybe tomorrow when the pain wasn't as intense, he could tolerate it, but not now.

Noting her reaction but oblivious to the cause, House said defensively, "Don't get your panties twisted. She's fine."

Cuddy was taken aback. Sitting up completely, she looked at him intently. "You think I'm worried about Rachel?" She didn't need an answer. "I'm worried about _you_." Her reaction seemed to puzzle him, and why wouldn't it? Lately, she'd given him every reason to think she cared about Rachel and... not enough reasons to think his girlfriend felt the same way about him.

Needing to be close to him, she laid down against him once more. This time her face burrowed in the crook of his neck, her nose pressed against his skin, she kissed him. "No wonder you took the Vicodin."

He didn't respond to her concern, just said, "I thought you'd be pissed."

"Why would I be mad?"

"Because Rachel –"

"Is fine."

She felt him shake his head once. "She ran off. I should have –"

"She's safe. You brought her home, and unless she thinks we're getting a dog because she hit her head on something hard, she's fine. You did what you were supposed to do."

It was her hope that he would hear the words and believe her, know that she was telling the truth. And for a brief moment, she thought she had succeeded. But as he kept explaining what had occurred, she got the feeling that everything she'd said had quickly been forgotten.

That it didn't matter to him what she had _said_, because he had already come to know that she treated him in a way that suggested otherwise.

She feared he wasn't wrong.

* * *

After the previous night, Cuddy wanted nothing more than to have a relaxing Saturday. House deserved as much with what she was putting him through. Yesterday, she'd gone to bed with the uneasy feeling that she'd irreversibly ruined their relationship. But this morning, she woke with a renewed sense of purpose that made her task seem like a pretty straightforward one.

She would be good to him today. She would be more demonstrative of her affection, something she couldn't remember when she did last. Sex didn't count, not the way they'd been having it. And he hadn't been much better with how he'd been treating her, but he had the advantage. He'd been making the most important effort of all, to show Rachel just how badly he wanted to be a part of her life. Cuddy could see he at least had an excuse. He'd been focused on her – their… _their?_ – daughter. Cuddy didn't have that to make her inattentiveness all right. So today would be the start of something new. She'd never thought that there would come a time where she would need to be this careful with him. He always seemed to know more about her than she did about herself. But she'd taken that for granted, and now she needed to prove to him that, as hard as this was for her, more than anything, she wanted him.

In a way, that made her job easy. All she needed to do was remind him that she loved him. Showing him how much she loved him wasn't difficult for her. Even if it seemed like she had forgotten how to do that, she hadn't. She just couldn't do much while he was still sleeping.

He'd eventually passed out on top of the covers last night, and he hadn't moved since she last saw him. The heating pad was still on top of his thigh, though off. But a palm along one of his cheeks told her that he was cold. From experience she knew that when he was cold, his thigh had a tendency to seize up. Trying to ease the blankets out from underneath his body and then on top of him wasn't an option however. She might wake him up or jostle his leg. So when she got up to get the morning paper and start her day, she turned the heating pad back on. Just in case. It probably wouldn't do much for him, but it was a start. And if he needed her to do more, she would.

Eventually though, she had to stop fussing over him, and she settled down in the living room. Bare feet tucked under her ass, a thin cotton robe wrapped around her to ward off the morning chill, she indulged in a rare cup of coffee while skimming the paper. She wasn't committing to any of the stories intentionally. By her estimations, Rachel would be up soon, so there was no point in relaxing.

Sure enough, ten minutes later, Cuddy heard the telltale sounds of Rachel's tiny feet padding through the hallway. Rachel would automatically head toward the bedroom where House was. She wouldn't consider the possibility that her mother was elsewhere, not first thing in the morning. But the last thing Cuddy wanted was to wake him up before he was ready to get out of bed. Setting her mug down, she quietly made her way to Rachel.

"Good morning," she said softly, gently announcing her presence.

Nearly in the bedroom with House, Rachel turned to face her. Sleepily she rubbed her eyes and looked confused.

"Looks like I got up before you did." Rachel didn't say anything, but she seemed to be on the verge of whining. Cuddy acted quickly so House could sleep. "Come here, my cranky little monkey," she said, easily scooping Rachel up into her arms. As she walked them down the hallway and away from the bedroom, she patted Rachel's back. "I think you're still sleepy."

Rachel finally spoke up. "Where Froggie?"

Cuddy looked along the floor for a flash of robin's egg blue crumpled against a wall, but she didn't see the stuffed animal anywhere. "I don't know. I don't see it, so I think you might have left Froggie in your bed. Why don't we go check?"

"I want my monkey," Rachel whined.

"Shh," Cuddy soothed in return. "House is sleeping. Let's not wake him up." She slipped into Rachel's bedroom quickly, just in case Rachel decided that she didn't care about House. The second they were in the room though, Cuddy spotted the stuffed animal right away; crisis averted.

Froggie was currently on the floor and distinctly squashed looking, like Rachel had accidentally stepped on him when she'd gotten out of bed. Because the toy had been a last minute drug store buy of House's, Froggie was… well, _cheap_. If it had once been a plush and rather large monkey, it had quickly deflated since Rachel had gotten it. Its tail was little more than two pieces of fabric sewn together, the stuffing all gone. And it was still blue, but it certainly wasn't the same brilliant shade it had once been. But of all the things Rachel owned, _this_ was, much to Cuddy's dismay, her favorite.

Carefully, Cuddy leaned over with Rachel still on her hip to pick up the stuffed animal. "Here we go. We found it." Rachel clutched the monkey to her chest before Cuddy had even gotten the words out.

Although Cuddy wasn't exactly fond of the toy, it seemed to calm Rachel down. Cuddy hated feeling like she was beholden to a stuffed animal. Rachel could turn so quickly when she wanted Froggie and it wasn't anywhere close. But for the moment, the monkey seemed useful. By the time Cuddy had brought them both into the living room, Rachel was asleep once more.

She didn't stay down for long. Only fifteen or so minutes of silence had past before she was awake again – and even more obstreperous than before. Cuddy couldn't tell if it was the short nap that had done it or if it was the promise that she would make Rachel breakfast that upset her. Either way, as soon as it became clear that House wouldn't be making the meal, whatever quiet had descended on them abruptly evaporated.

"Come on. I'll make us some eggs," Cuddy suggested when they were in the kitchen.

"No!" There was such vehemence in the word that it was a little surprising.

"Don't scream, Rachel. And you like eggs."

Rachel shook her head. "I don't want 'em."

"Okay… what about pancakes?"

"Yuck."

On principle, Cuddy wasn't interested in giving Rachel whatever she wanted. But if it would shut her up so that House could sleep, Cuddy was willing to give it to her in this one _very specific_ instance. What Rachel wanted, however, was House to get up and make her breakfast. Cuddy tried to pretend like that wasn't where this conversation was headed. She knew better though.

"What can I make then that you will eat?"

"Nufing," Rachel said with what appeared to be a smile tugging at the corners of her mouth.

Cuddy shook her head. "That's not an option. We need to eat, so you can take your medicine. So tell me what you want, or we're going to have cereal."

"No!" Rachel tossed Froggie to the floor in anger. "No cereal."

"What did I just say about being quiet?"

Rachel ignored her. "I want House to make –"

"House isn't awake."

As soon as the words were said though, they were no longer true. Standing in the kitchen doorway, his hair askew and eyes tired, was House, completely awake. It was obvious that this was not by choice. He looked exhausted, vaguely annoyed, but perhaps less so because Cuddy was trying to keep Rachel quiet for his sake.

"I'm sorry," Cuddy apologized, cringing. Hurriedly she moved away from the refrigerator and towards him. She kissed him briefly before saying, "She's in a mood today."

"No, I'm not!"

House ignored Rachel completely, focusing his attention on Cuddy instead. "Not your fault."

"I was going to let you sleep. How are you feeling?" she asked, noting that he had slipped an arm around her waist. He just shrugged in answer. "I'm sorry. Are you hungry? I can fix –"

"You think that's a good idea?" He pretended to seem nervous at the idea of her at the stove.

And _that_ aggravated her. "Not you too."

"I'm just saying: I already feel bad enough. I don't think I need food poisoning to –"

"I have never – my food is – you are just as bad as she is," Cuddy accused, flustered.

"And you don't think there might be a reason for that?"

"Oh, there's a reason. You're teasing me, but she doesn't know the difference. She just picks up on what you're saying and –"

"So this reason has nothing to do with your inability to cook? Interesting." He smirked. "You have actually tasted the things you've made, yeah?"

He was enjoying himself, but she was considerably more frustrated. She wouldn't yell though, wouldn't let Rachel hear what she was about to say. Leaning into him, Cuddy rested her chin on his shoulder. To Rachel it would just look like they were hugging. To House a death threat seemed eminent as he tensed. Both were wrong.

"Don't make this difficult. I just wanted to do something nice for you," she confessed.

"Oh." He was surprised but recovered easily. "Well, I'm all for being _lavished_ –"

"That's not exactly what I said." Even if he wasn't completely wrong about that, she fought back automatically.

"Isn't it?" he asked. "I'd like an explanation – eventually – but I'm not going to complain about your behavior as long as it benefits me." He was making it sound like she was doing this to get something from him. She wanted to ask him why he had to take an act of kindness and reduce it to something that seemed so… manipulative, but she suspected that the question would be lost on him. "That said, if you want to do something _nice_ for me, I don't think breakfast –"

"You're wrong. It counts."

"From most people, probably. From _you_, definitely not."

She sighed. This was a fight she was losing, but she had to keep trying. "It's not that bad. You make me sound more incompetent than I am."

"Sure," he said with a shrug. "Still, let's play to our strengths, shall we?" The patronizing words were punctuated with a soft pat on her ass. His meaning was clear.

"I _am_ good at more than just having sex with you," she whispered, low enough so that Rachel could definitely not hear that.

House pushed her away then. "Oh, I know you are. It's just that I happen to like your skills in _that_ area more than all the others you possess. Now, let me get started on breakfast."

Rachel clapped her hands with happiness. "Yay!"

"Don't scowl, snookums," House mocked as he began rummaging through the refrigerator for eggs. He couldn't even see the look on her face, Cuddy thought, but he knew. She was not happy about this situation.

As always, he sensed that she had a plan… and without any concern or care for it, he was wrecking it.

She wouldn't let that deter her, she told herself. He was going to make breakfast, but there was no reason why she had to give up. It felt like a failure, so she reminded herself that she had plenty of time, many more opportunities to demonstrate to House that she loved him.

If she were thrown off by the rough start, she'd recovered by the time afternoon hit. The morning had become relaxing eventually, and now outside, Cuddy could feel the sun slowly dissolving whatever chill might have lingered in the house. She realized that sounded stupid. All she really meant was that this felt right.

They'd had a picnic in the backyard for lunch. Silly as the whole concept was, it was a nice day, and more importantly, it felt like a good way to get Rachel out of the house and playing outside. And Rachel had been excited at the novelty, so Cuddy was willing to qualify the meager meal of turkey sandwiches and hummus with crackers and celery sticks a success.

House had made cookies after breakfast, so Cuddy had assumed he wouldn't join them outside after putting forth that effort. She had been wrong in thinking he would take a break though; he'd followed them both out the door, even going so far as to help bring food out. She didn't mean to sound so surprised by his helpfulness (she wasn't). It was just that she could see that he was still recovering from yesterday. He didn't complain and showed no signs of having taken the Vicodin, but his gait wasn't back to normal yet. And sometimes when she looked at him, he seemed far away, like he wasn't in the room with her because his attention was focused on the pain. But he had put that aside to join them.

Maybe it was for the best. It was peaceful out here. Cuddy had spread out a blanket for them to eat off of and sit on. Now with the food cleared off to the side, House had taken over the thin quilt by lying on top of it. His legs cast out into the warm sunlight, he had his face resting in Cuddy's lap while she watched over Rachel, who was busy weeding the yard. From a distance, the scene would look bad. The mother relaxing with her boyfriend, her hands rubbing his neck, temples, and hair, the daughter toiling away in the grass. But Rachel _liked_ what she was doing. Cuddy couldn't understand why, but apparently, there was something immensely satisfying in yanking the unwanted foliage out of the ground. Indeed, if one were to get a closer look, it would be impossible to miss the smile on Rachel's face as she tackled a particularly stubborn plant and pulled hard. Even when she fell backwards and landed on her butt, she didn't seem deterred. She just got back up and tried harder.

"You do realize she probably kills more grass doing that than the weeds would if we just left them there, right?" House asked tiredly. His eyes closed, he wasn't even looking at what Rachel was doing. But he wasn't wrong either. Rachel, for all of her efforts, was less discerning about what she forced out of the ground than was desired.

Cuddy pushed his hair back off his warm forehead. "It's fine. It's probably all going to die when the summer hits, so a few bald spots aren't that big of a deal."

He didn't care enough about what Rachel was doing to comment further on it. "I know what you're doing," he said calmly. The abruptness of the change in topic confused her. "You being nice to me," he clarified.

"I can't be nice to you?"

"You _can_, yes. But the way you're laying it on, I'm expecting you to start feeding me peeled grapes and –"

"No, I'm not."

He shrugged. "I'm just curious as to why."

"Why... I'm being nice to you?" She stumbled over the words, because it was such a depressing thought that she could barely articulate what he was implying. "Because I – what exactly do you think is happening?"

If she was uncomfortable with the accusation, he seemed the opposite. He was relaxed, not mad, matter of fact without sounding cold. "I assume you want something. So as nice as this is, I'd rather we just get to the point, so I can decide what exactly it is you should do to convince me of whatever it is that you want."

"I don't want anything," she said simply, more than a little vaguely offended by the idea.

"Really?" He was surprised.

"Really. I don't want anything," she repeated. "I just want to have a nice weekend with you. It feels like we haven't had one of those in a while and –"

"By all means then, continue."

She replied sarcastically, "Why thank you for your permission, House."

"You're welcome."

"Shut up."

He acted as though he was wounded. "I thought you were trying to be _nice_. What a quitter."

"Yes, that's me," she said dryly.

He didn't respond, perhaps content to let the conversation go, perhaps too tired to let it continue. He yawned then and rubbed at his eyes.

"Why don't you go lay down?" she suggested. "You look exhausted."

At first he was dismissive. "I'm fine."

"Of course. And how fine are you going to be if you fall asleep on the ground?"

"I don't know. Your thighs – getting bigger by the way – are pretty comfy." He moved his head around on her lap as though he were getting comfortable.

"My thighs are not –"

"Must be your ass then. It's –"

"My ass is the same as it has always been, and last I checked, it didn't have magical powers –"

"Oh it's got powers," he insisted.

"To make your leg feel better after it's been on the ground for a few hours," she continued, ignoring him.

He seemed to think about it and sighed. The joke clearly no longer funny to him, he relented. "Fine. Maybe you're right."

"It does happen sometimes."

"You've met your quota for the year early then. Congratulations."

"Go away," she said, pushing at his shoulders.

He smirked as he slowly got up. "That truth bomb hurt?"

"I don't know what that means, but I think I've learned to survive whatever you throw my way."

"One can only hope."

If he had sounded doubtful, she wasn't sure what she would have done. But he was joking, and though it wasn't funny to her, she would at least take some comfort in the fact that he didn't mean it. That was what she told herself anyway; when he headed back into the house, it was difficult to find anything positive about what he'd said.

"Mommy, I'm thirsty."

Knowing there was no way she could continue thinking about House, Cuddy turned her head to Rachel. The little girl's hair had come mostly out of its ponytail, the hair tie barely looped around a few sweaty strands at the nape of her neck. And she was covered in dirt and grass stains, her face pink with the considerable effort she'd put into attacking the yard. Although naps were becoming rarer now, there was no question that Rachel would fall asleep this afternoon. Cuddy smiled at her as she reached for the sippy cup filled with water nestled by her hip out of sight. "Here you go, honey."

Rachel took the cup and drank from it happily. Before Cuddy could even suggest it, Rachel asked, "Can you fix my hair?"

"Of course." Cuddy patted her lap to signal for Rachel to sit down. Rachel eagerly listened. As Cuddy went about making a new ponytail, she said, "You get all the weeds?"

"I think so."

"Good. You're such a big help."

Rachel ignored her. "Where's House?"

"He's taking a nap." There was no need to discuss why. There was no desire to. That would just bring the conversation back to yesterday, and Cuddy didn't want to talk about anything involving the dog. Looking back at their discussion last night, she had come to the conclusion that Rachel had just meant that they'd gotten the dog in the car, not that House had promised such a thing (obviously he hadn't). But just in case she was wrong, Cuddy was hoping that, by not talking about it, Rachel wouldn't ask again. And the next time they were in a parking lot, Rachel wouldn't be allowed _anywhere_ until she took hold of her mother's hand.

"Oh." She didn't seem concerned one way or another. The serenity didn't last long however, as Rachel quickly began to fuss. The sunshine and the heat getting to her, she complained, "My water's hot."

"Okay. Let's –"

"I'm _hot_," she whined, wiggling around uncomfortably on Cuddy's lap.

"Then let's go inside, all right? Go on," she said before Rachel could say anything else. "I'll bring everything in. You just go get cool." It was easier to deal with the problem than to admonish Rachel for her complaining.

Not surprisingly, Rachel ran toward the door without ever looking back to see if she could help Cuddy bring anything in to the kitchen. But that was fine, honestly. Cuddy didn't mind cleaning up on her own. Again, it was probably easier that way. There were no helping hands, but this would be quicker. Even counting the time necessary to pick up the extracted weeds Rachel had left behind on the ground, it only took five, maybe ten, minutes to discard the dead plants, grab the blanket, and dirty dishes. Rachel was waiting for her at the door. "I can hold it!" she exclaimed in her eagerness to help, referring to the door that would surely hit Cuddy in the ass if someone weren't there to prop it open.

"Thank you," Cuddy said with purpose. Living with House sometimes made it feel like a lost cause to teach Rachel manners, but the effort was still important to make. Once she was inside, she asked, "Can you grab the blanket for me please?"

"Uh huh." With more force than was necessary, Rachel tugged on the afghan currently wedged underneath Cuddy's armpit. "What do I do now?"

Cuddy smiled. "Let me put the dishes in the sink and then I'll take it from you."

"And then I can have more cookies?" Rachel asked sweetly. Cuddy ignored her to make sure she got the plates, bowls, and silverware into the sink and not on the floor. "Mommy?"

"Not right now. Maybe after dinner."

"Please?"

Moving back to her daughter, Cuddy said, "I'm glad that you said, 'Please,' but I already gave you an answer." When Rachel started to pout, Cuddy leaned down and kissed her cheek. "I don't want your blood sugar to get too high, so not right now, okay?"

"This sucks." The blanket was tossed on the floor in a fit of frustration, but before the tantrum could fully form, it was interrupted by the phone ringing.

"I have to get this," Cuddy explained. There was no need to threaten Rachel with punishment if she acted up while Cuddy tried to take the call. The warning was implied and understood. "Hello?" she asked a moment after she'd picked up the phone.

"Hello, Lisa."

The friendly voice was familiar though one Cuddy hadn't heard in a while. It felt odd to say that it belonged to her mother-in-law, as House had done his best to keep the two parts of his family as distinct from one another as possible. He more than anyone else would balk at the terminology, but Cuddy wasn't exactly comfortable with Blythe House being her mother-in-law either. It didn't make much sense to her; she had no problem referring to Blythe as one of Rachel's grandmothers after all. Then again, considering who the other grandmother was in this situation, anyone, even a rock, would probably be an improvement, Cuddy thought bleakly. Still, she had yet to feel anything toward Blythe personally. Good or bad. Their relationship was polite, but they weren't close. They didn't share stories very much or relate to one another. When they were together, they focused on Rachel. They didn't even talk about House really, beyond how he was and the very basics of conversation necessary to maintain a warm dynamic between them, of course. Like so:

"Blythe. How are you doing?"

"I'm well. How are you?"

"Good."

"The hospital keeping you busy?"

"As always, but I'm managing. We got a pretty big donation a few months ago, so it hasn't been as hectic lately," Cuddy explained. Bored, Rachel started to walk away, but Cuddy grabbed her by the arm and motioned for her to stay put.

"Congratulations. And how is Greg?"

"Greg is Greg" was the typical answer Cuddy offered, and so it was the one she used here. It seemed to convey all of the required information.

"That well?" As was her way, Blythe managed to sound warm and sarcastic all at the same time.

If it were what House wanted, Cuddy would have told her about the patient he'd just lost. He wouldn't want his mother to know that though, so Cuddy said nothing. It became clear then, in a way she had never realized, that the issue between the women was House himself. He didn't want there to be a relationship... so there wasn't.

"And how's Rachel?"

Cuddy smiled. "A handful. I have her here if you'd like to say hi."

"I would like that very much, thank you."

"All right. Hold on." Cuddy pulled the phone away from ear. "Do you want to say hello to your grandmother?" she asked Rachel. The answer came in the form of scowl, as though the very idea was torturous. "Not Nana," Cuddy clarified.

Rachel's mood changed instantly. "Mom Mom?" she asked, acting as though she needed clarification to avoid being tricked. Cuddy nodded her head. "Okay, then I want to talk to her."

"Good. Because I think she wants to talk to you too." Cuddy hit the speakerphone button; it seemed easier to subject herself to the inane conversation than to trust that Rachel, who was still too young to remember that she needed to always hold the phone up to her mouth, would remember. "Blythe, I put you on speakerphone if that's all right."

"That's fine with me. Is Rachel there?"

"Uh huh! I'm here," Rachel said cheerfully as Cuddy set the phone on the kitchen counter. Reaching down, she picked Rachel up and put her on the counter as well.

"And how are you doing, darling?"

"I am good."

"Are you learning a lot in school?"

"No!"

Cuddy intervened. "We're learning some things. Next week, the school is having its field day. The children spend the day outside playing games and participating in sports. I think there's even going to be someone there to paint faces. Isn't there, Rachel?"

Rachel shrugged. "I don't know."

"I'm pretty sure I have that right."

"Well, that sounds like a lot of fun. What could be better than going to school and not having to participate in lessons?" the voice over the phone said.

"It's certainly different than when I attended school," Cuddy replied diplomatically. "But the school year's almost over, so I suppose the idea is to let everyone have one day of fun before they go off for the summer. Or in Rachel's case, before she changes schools. I'm sure I told you about that, didn't I?"

"Yes, you did," Blythe said in an equally polite manner. "I appreciate you thinking of me when it comes keeping me informed, since my own son chooses not to."

"You know House" was all Cuddy could say in return.

"Are you looking forward to your new school, Rachel?"

Rachel glared at Cuddy; she obviously didn't appreciate this topic of conversation. "No."

"I'm sure you'll meet a lot of new friends. A sweet little girl like you. I think you'll have so much fun next year." That was the thing about all of this that Cuddy couldn't understand. House acted as though he hated his own mother. But from where she was standing, Blythe was more often than not just a sweet woman. Because of House, there was an awkwardness the two women couldn't overcome, but she was gentle and optimistic with Rachel. That was more than Cuddy could say for her own mother.

"I guess," Rachel said noncommittally.

Blythe changed the subject. "Well, what have you been doing outside of school recently? Are you still dancing?"

Excitedly Rachel took the opening to focus on other topics. "Uh huh. I dances a lot, and it's fun, and I get to wear a yellow costume with _flames_!" She actually shouted the last word, like that would provide extra enjoyment.

"They are having a recital the weekend before the fourth of July," Cuddy explained. "I think she's supposed to be the sun."

"Is that a good part?" Blythe asked carefully.

"Yes! I have to be on stage the whole time, and I has to dance a lot and sometimes I have to stand still and flap my arms cause I has rays."

"That sounds wonderful. I wish I could be there to see it."

The guilt trip was fairly effective. But oblivious to what was happening around her, Rachel kept talking. Unfortunately for Cuddy, Rachel had not forgotten about the dog yesterday. Blythe's desire to see Rachel pushed out of Cuddy's mind, Cuddy focused her attention on what Rachel was now saying. Thankfully, she didn't claim that she had been allowed to keep the dog. It was just the opposite. As the emotionally wrought story came to an end, Rachel finished by saying, "House says we can't keep the puppy."

"Well, you know Rachel, it doesn't sound like that doggie is ready for a family yet," Blythe told her calmly. The fact that Blythe hadn't used the moment to criticize her son or Cuddy was not surprising; she wasn't Arlene. But Cuddy was grateful nonetheless. "Perhaps, if your mommy says it's okay, you could go see the dog before he finds a new home. Wish him good luck and say goodbye to him once you know that he's okay."

Rachel didn't like this idea. It was obvious that she had been hoping desperately that her beloved grandmother would condemn her mother and House for denying such a sweet and precious child the dog of her dreams. "Maybe... but I think he should come live with me!"

"That would be very nice indeed," Blythe humored. "But… I'm sure the dog already has a home."

"Yes, he does," Cuddy said, latching onto the idea, even though it contradicted what Blythe had said only moments ago.

Rachel looked at her suspiciously. "No, he doesn't."

"You know what I think?" Blythe offered. "I think that any dog you love must be special enough to already have a home. Because if you want him, then so would everybody else. I'm sure someone misses him very much right now."

It was a complete lie, but for Rachel, there was something about Blythe's soft demeanor that gave the lie more credibility than it deserved. " I guess," she conceded. "Then I wanna say goodbye," she said to Cuddy, who considered refusing.

It was a good idea; she wouldn't deny that she appreciated what Blythe was doing. It would give Rachel the closure she needed, give her the comfort in seeing that the dog was all right and that it would be loved even if not by her. On the other hand, Cuddy could tell that a meeting between the dog and Rachel would be anything but simple. If they came to face to face, it wouldn't be about saying goodbye. That certainly wasn't why she wanted to see the animal. Regardless of Blythe's intentions, the reality would be that this would be a last ditch effort to convince Cuddy that they should take the dog. Rachel would never be able to let the dog go without fighting for it. And when that battle was lost, as it was always going to be, she would be heartbroken. Goodbye would occur, but it would be the type of ending wrenched from her, forced out of her, and in that way, it wouldn't give her the closure she wanted. It would upset her; it would make her angry, and it would cause more problems than just a simple, "We can't go see the dog" would have ever created. But Blythe had made the suggestion. Perhaps she didn't realize the problems it would create, or maybe she just didn't care, so long as she looked like a hero in Rachel's eyes.

No, Cuddy thought rejecting the idea. Her mother-in-law was many things, but the family tree's deviousness seemed to have been concentrated in House, excluding all other family members from having that trait. For Cuddy it might not have been the most helpful suggestion, but it was not intentionally offered as a means to create complication. Blythe was a nice person even if they weren't close. Besides, wasn't she doing Cuddy a favor by putting off Rachel's desire to keep the dog? Cuddy told herself that she was, that this was a sweet attempt at helping her.

Of course, there was no way Cuddy could say no to the idea now. Later... maybe, _maybe_ she would be able to tell Rachel something came up. But not now.

"We can do that. I'll call the vet and see when would be a good time for us to stop by."

"Good," Rachel said calmly. "Will you come to my recital?" she asked, placated by the promise that she would get to see the dog again.

"Oh Rachel, I don't know if Mom Mom wants to come all this way. It's a very long drive for her." As soon as she said it, Cuddy knew how terrible it sounded. She hadn't intended to make it seem like Blythe wouldn't want to see Rachel. As confusing as this family dynamic was, Cuddy was sure that Blythe loved Rachel, would do anything for her.

Reinforcing that point, Blythe said, "Rachel, I would love to come. But we'll have to make sure Greg is okay with it."

Rachel's nose scrunched up in confusion. "Why do you call House 'Greg'?"

"Because that's his name, darling. His first name anyway."

"Oh."

There was a moment of silence where nobody spoke. Cuddy knew that the others were waiting for her to say something dismissively about House, such as, "Don't worry about House." But the truth was she didn't want to speak like that, especially not in front of Rachel. Maybe she would have at one time, but looming over them now was the guardianship. And if Cuddy was looking for House to prove that he was worthy, she knew that she couldn't undermine him as she might have done in the past.

It wasn't that she would lose him. He wouldn't break up with her. But if she made him seem unimportant, his opinions valueless, what would that teach Rachel? She could see now that there had been times where she had done just that, recently too, and the result would be, if God forbid something happened, that Rachel would never view House has a figure of authority. With her mother gone, Rachel would be in House's care, but she wouldn't behave for him, because she would have learned to ignore him. She would have come to believe, thanks to her own mother, that House couldn't be trusted to know what was good for her.

_That_ couldn't happen. All the acts of kindness today would be meaningless if she allowed that to occur in her death. There would be no amount of massages and heating pads and breakfasts made for him to make up for that.

So all she could tell Blythe and Rachel was, "I'll talk to House. I'm sure he wants to see you."

"Well I'm glad one of us is sure about that." It was sarcasm mixed with the palpable desire for Cuddy to be right. "I mean, it would be nice to see my granddaughter. She must have grown so much since I last saw her."

"No," Rachel said hastily. "I'm tiny. I'm a baby."

"Yes, you are. A sweet little baby," Blythe agreed.

Her tone was what stuck with Cuddy long after the conversation ended. Regardless of everything else, Blythe _loved _Rachel. She had seen Cuddy's daughter as part of her family in some ways long before House himself had. And it seemed to Cuddy then so ridiculous that they should be kept apart for reasons House had never named. It seemed so silly that they would be looking for nannies when Blythe was in Lexington, little more than a widow who spent her days waiting for the next friend or acquaintance to die. It seemed wrong.

But the idea didn't form fully in Cuddy's mind until Rachel had gone down for her nap. Only in the silence did Cuddy begin to believe that maybe she could convince Blythe to relocate and House to let her. The latter would obviously take more convincing than the former, but really, what grounds would he have to refuse? He might have felt that his mother had been horrible to him (although he had never really said one way or the other if he believed this), but she was nice to Rachel. Cuddy didn't underestimate how hard that would be for him to accept. Was it a reason to keep Rachel from enjoying that love and attention though? No.

And if Blythe would be willing to watch Rachel, who would be a better caregiver than Rachel's own grandmother? She didn't know how to give insulin injections, of course. But Blythe would have more of a reason to learn and certainly more motivation to get the dosage _right_. And if that was too complicated, there was nothing to prevent her from bringing Rachel to the hospital for doses or from a nurse being hired to help Blythe.

Cuddy took a deep breath and forced herself to pause. It wasn't a bad idea, but she needed House to okay it. Part of her railed against needing his _approval_, but she couldn't do this without that. It was a delicate matter, the relationship between mother and son. Cuddy wouldn't be doing anyone any good if she brought Blythe out here to be subjected to House's abuse. That wouldn't benefit Rachel in any way, so Cuddy decided broaching the possibility with House had to happen. Even if she didn't like the thought of giving him the power to veto what she thought was best for her own daughter.

Reluctantly then, Cuddy headed to their bedroom. She had no plans to wake House up, but she figured the bedroom was as good a place as any to wait. But when she entered the room, he was sitting up in bed, perusing the book she'd left on her nightstand.

"This is crap, by the way," he said firmly, like he was judging her for even having brought the book into their home.

"And yet you're reading it," she pointed out before shutting the door behind her. "Why are you awake?"

He shrugged. "Can't sleep, and I didn't feel like getting up to find something better to read." He tossed the book in the general vicinity of her nightstand and missed, the novel sliding onto the floor. "Mommy, I dropped it."

Begrudgingly she went and picked it up. "Speaking of mothers –"

"Yeah, see I was hoping this would turn into kinky sex and _not_ a discussion of your mother's latest –"

"I wasn't referring to my mom," she said in a calm, serious voice.

He must have known what she was getting at. There was no way he didn't understand. But he acted as though he didn't get it. "Oh. Is this about Wilson's latest piece? Because I'm sure he was only joking when he told me he let her dress him up in diapers and spank him with –"

"While I appreciate that mental picture –"

"That turn you on, huh? I know. It's hard to resist."

"I'm talking about _your_ mother."

The playfulness was gone. "Is that who called?" Cuddy nodded her head. "What did she want?"

"To talk." She tried to watch his face carefully as she sat on the bed beside him, but he was too good to let any emotion through.

"And how did that go?" It was a neutral question.

"Fine. Rachel told her about the dog."

"You didn't think she would? She isn't going to shut up about that thing until the mailman knows about it."

She cautiously admitted, "I may have underestimated her desire for –"

"Let's just get to the point," he interrupted abruptly.

She didn't understand. "What do you –"

"You talked to my mother. You knew I was laying down, didn't know whether I was asleep or not. Yet you came in here anyway. That means you want something. Or rather, it means _she_ wants something. I'm guessing she wants to visit."

She didn't say anything at first. While technically that was true, Cuddy was about to ask him for so much more than that. And it needed to be put to him in the best way possible, if only to get him to even consider the proposal. But she hadn't expected him to be awake, so she hadn't thought of what to say.

"I'll take that as a yes," he said triumphantly. "You tell her no?"

"No."

"You told her yes?"

"No. I told her that I would talk to you."

"And you think I'm going to say yes?" He was almost amused with his own curiosity.

Cuddy decided there would be no time better than the present to spring the idea on House. He would never be in the right frame of mind to hear her out. No matter what, he would rail against the proposal. But if she waited to bring it up, it would look like she'd been plotting against him. Or like she'd lied to him or something. So she had no choice but to wade through the murky thought process that had once seemed perfectly clear. Words forming slowly and uneasily, she explained, "I know you don't like spending time with her, so of course, I know what you're going to say."

"Then you should have told her no." His voice was flat, not angry but hardly pleased by this turn of events.

"She needs to understand that her relationship with Rachel is the way that it is because of her relationship with _you_, not me."

"Yes it's all my fault."

"That's not what I'm saying."

"But you're hoping I'll tell you that she should come stay with us for a few days anyway." It wasn't a question. He must have been able to sense it from her, what she wanted. "That's why you didn't tell her no. Because you want her here."

"Not exactly." She sighed, every cell in her reluctant to bring up anything that might destroy the neutral ground they'd finally found themselves on. "I was listening to her talk to Rachel on the phone, and Rachel adores her."

A year ago, he would have said something disparaging about Rachel to discredit her opinion. Today, he merely admitted, "I know she does."

Cuddy wanted to believe that was a good sign, so she continued. "And even though you clearly don't believe she was a good mother to you, I'm sure you can see that your mom is _great_ with Rachel." He gave her nothing in response, just kept his eyes on her, imploring her to keep going. "I was thinking how silly it is. Your mother is completely alone, all by herself in that home of hers. She has nobody to turn to."

"Am I supposed to feel bad about that? Cause I don't."

She ignored the snipe, although the comment registered in her mind that it wasn't a good sign of things to come. "The only thing she has is, not counting you, her granddaughter."

He sneered, silencing her immediately. But if he was offended, he didn't explain why. He just said, "Keep talking. I want to get this over with."

Reluctantly, she did as he requested. "And here we are, looking for someone to watch Rachel while –"

"No."

The word was uttered so low that it would have been easy to miss if not for the deadly manner in which it came out. It gave her pause. But she knew that he was going to be mad either way now; she might as well offer the full argument so that his wrath would be lessened by the knowledge that she had said everything she'd wanted to.

"She wouldn't live with us. She would watch Rachel during the weekdays. Pick her up from school."

"Did you talk to my mother about this?" he asked insistently.

"No." She went back to building her case. "You wouldn't have to talk to her. You'd barely have to see her. And in return, she would get to spend time with Rachel, which they both want. We wouldn't have to plan trips for them to see one another. And instead of hiring someone, we would be leaving Rachel in the care of someone who is actually invested in her well-being." She placed a hand over his heart. "I know this is hard, but is there anyone better for –"

"I would say just about _everyone_ else on the planet would be a better babysitter," he snapped. "Actually anyone else – I would trust them more."

He'd rejected the idea. She could see that he wasn't even considering it. Without thinking, he was saying no. She didn't feel anger or disappointment because of that; she understood that she was asking a lot of him right now. But she pushed him anyway, "Please. Don't say no just because –"

"Stop talking." It was an order, roughly given and horribly received. "This isn't happening. It's not going to happen. I don't care what your reasoning in that _tiny_ brain of yours is. You're an idiot. _This_ idea of yours? It's as stupid as you are, so do us both a favor and shut up."

It wasn't what he said that bothered her. He'd said far worse to her before, and when insults, particularly ones about her intellect, were common, she didn't take offense to what he said in the heat of the moment. Well... maybe she did, a little bit anyway. But it wasn't the words themselves that upset her. It was the tone he used, the way he shoved her hand off of him and rolled away from her. Normally, when they argued, they said many terrible things to one another. Years of their working relationship had expanded the limits to what could be said between them. Typically though, he didn't resist her touch; if anything, they should have been angrily tearing off each other's clothes right now and having sex.

This was anything but the usual disagreement between them though. He was proving that with each passing second. The fact that he wouldn't even look at her, the way his body was tightly coiled and tensed, as though he feared her next words like a physical blow – that wasn't how this was supposed to go. Everything about him said that she had to stop. And she _did_ want to do what he had instructed. But she couldn't, could she? She'd made a mistake, and she had to make it right.

Because there was no way this was going to resolve itself on its own.

"House," she said slowly.

"Shut up."

She tried again. "Please –"

"No."

She waited a moment, gave him a chance to calm down, before trying again. "You're right," she said as quickly as she could. She needed to say those words before he interrupted her, so the sentence came out as one long word. This time, he didn't comment. "It's a terrible idea."

And maybe spooning against him when he was desperate to put distance between them was another one, but she did it anyway. Moving as close to him as she could, she let her forehead press against the back of his neck. "I shouldn't have said that. It was stupid."

"You don't say" was his cold reply. Capitulation was having no effect in calming him down.

Neither did "I'm sorry." She had to go further. "I just wish that you would... no, I don't want to say that." She didn't want it to sound like she was blaming him. That he wasn't already yelling at her again was a good sign, she supposed. But it wasn't proof that she had been absolved of her sins. "I want to do what's best for Rachel and –"

"_That _isn't it," he snarled, proof of an obvious misstep on her part.

She didn't disagree. "I know. Obviously it's not if it makes you this upset." He shifted uncomfortably at the terminology but didn't fight her. "I just… your mother doesn't have that much time left."

"Thank God for that."

"I know you don't mean that."

He shook his head. "You don't know that. And I do mean it."

"Rachel loves her. I got caught up in that, wanting to give Rachel that relationship that she will never have with my mother." She could feel him bristling at her explanation. He didn't want that, clearly. He wanted her to grovel. "I know. I didn't think about it enough. I don't think about _you_ enough when I'm trying to make decisions like this. I'm sorry."

"Of course you didn't do that." He was calmer now but no less judgmental and hateful in his response. "You let a woman who barely sees Rachel once a year consider herself a grandmother, but I _live _with Rachel, and I have to beg for everything I get from you."

"That's not true."

"It is. You think I'm not good enough for Rachel but the woman who _raised_ me? She's _fine_?" He laughed breathlessly, joylessly.

When it was put like that, it sounded awful. But he was ignoring an important fact, which she pointed out. "Two things," she said in a straightforward manner. "If I let her consider herself Rachel's grandmother, it was so that you would invest yourself in Rachel's future more. At that point, you had no interest in her, and I thought that that would help you see the role you were assuming in Rachel's life. More importantly, Blythe can do what she wants, because she's never going to be my daughter's _father_. _You are_," she stressed heavily.

That was what they were talking about. They could couch it in less threatening terms like "guardianship," but they both knew what they were doing, what it would mean. When they explained it to Rachel, there wouldn't be any legal terms used. Cuddy knew what she would have to say to her daughter. There was no point in pretending otherwise.

"Yes. This is harder. It _should_ be," she argued.

"Because I would be around Rachel every day, where as a grandmother wouldn't – Oh wait," he exclaimed, pretending to be surprised where his point would lead him.

She rolled her eyes, knowing that he couldn't see her. "Well, that's not happening. But if it had, she wouldn't make decisions. I would have never let her cross that boundary."

"That's good to know, considering she would be terrible at it," he muttered.

Silently she draped an arm over him and held him close for what she would ask next. Afraid he would bolt otherwise, she wanted him to understand that she wasn't trying to hurt him, that it was just the opposite.

"Talk to me," she implored. "Your father… I understand." Comprehension wasn't thanks to him. He had never talked much about his childhood, save for a few tidbits here and there. When his father had died, House had let more information slip than he ever would have normally. Cuddy had gotten most of it second hand, thanks to Wilson, but through the years, she had received a pretty complete picture of House's childhood nonetheless. And in all she'd learned, every act of cruelty seemed to be at his father's hands. Not Blythe's.

"But your mother," Cuddy continued.

"Oh, you think you've earned the family history now? After _that_, Cuddy?"

"I want to understand why you get angrier the closer she gets." She hedged off accusations of stupidity by saying, "I wish I was smart enough to get it. I –"

"I would like that as well. Unfortunately for both of us, your mother drank while pregnant so…."

"Fine. I'm an idiot. Is that you want me to say?"

He shook his head emphatically. "I don't want you to say anything. I'd much rather you actually consider what it is that you're asking and _figure it out_."

It killed her to open herself up to criticism by saying it, but he left her no choice. She had to admit what he couldn't see. "House, I would do anything to avoid having this conversation. I hate asking. I do. But I don't understand. I don't."

He made a noise of disgust. "What's there to understand? You just have to do what you are _told_ when it comes to my mother."

"No," she fought back. "I'm not doing that anymore."

"Putting it like that makes it sound like there was a time when you did do that. And clearly, what today has shown is that –"

"I have done just that for a long time. Every time she calls, I avoid…. Never mind. From now on, if you want me to put your mother off, you're going to have explain why. Right now. Before you've had a chance to come up with something that sounds reasonable but is a complete lie." She wasn't threatening, not really. He just needed incentive to talk to her.

"What do you want me to say?" he demanded, his words echoing hers from moments ago. "You want me to tell you every last gruesome detail of –"

"I want you to _talk _to me. That is all I have ever wanted from you." She was pleading. Her lips kissed the back of his neck, her hands squeezing into the skin beneath her. "She upsets you so much, and –"

"No, she doesn't."

"Don't deny it. I know you hate her."

"And that should be enough."

"It's not. And it's not for you, because if I say anything even remotely kind about her, you take it as a personal affront."

"Again, that should be enough to tell you everything you need to know."

"I'm not interested in salacious details, House." But the reassurance wasn't successful. Looking at him, she could tell that her tactics hadn't worked so far. Threats, sympathy, pleas – they weren't getting her any nearer to what she needed to know. No, she thought, rejecting the way she had worded the sentiment. It wasn't a fact-finding mission she was on. She hadn't lied by saying she wasn't asking for the specifics. That might help, but she would have settled for knowing what about his mother upset him so badly. To his mind, he would no doubt believe those things were one in the same. They might have been. For her though, there was a distinction between retelling precisely what had happened and what fears or anger he specifically had now about his mother being in his life. He wasn't going to tell her either way. She could say it however she wanted, but he lay there frozen, tensed as though he were waiting for her to strike. He of all people though would know she would never hit him, so what was he afraid of?

It _was_ fear she saw. The realization coming to her without being asked for, she could recognize it now for what it was. He was terrified. And if the cause wasn't the possibility of physical violence, she could only believe that there was just one reason left.

Stroking his arm with her palm, she told him in a gentle voice, "I won't tell you you're wrong. Whatever you tell me… you're right. I will believe you, no matter what you say."

"Like you did when you suggested my mother move here while you knew I would –"

"I'm sorry. I am so sorry, House."

It was hard to say if he believed her or was just exasperated with the way the conversation was going. The way he let out a ragged breath, it seemed like the weight of his secrets had exhausted him. But the way he relaxed a little against her suggested otherwise.

"I keep thinking," he started off in a voice so quiet that she could barely hear him. "When I look at Rachel, I can't... I can't picture myself doing to her the things that happened to me when I was her age."

She was quick to reassure him. "I know. You could never be like that. You're a good man."

It needed to be said. The last couple of months, she had shown more reluctance toward this whole situation than he deserved. She was scared to share Rachel with him, for reasons that had nothing to do with what kind of man House was. He needed to know that. As concerned as she could be that he would spoil Rachel, Cuddy knew that he would never _hurt_ her. She worried that she had suggested otherwise, and that anxiety wasn't lessened in the way he silently accepted the words. If he had known that, he would have made fun of her for feeling the need to state the obvious.

He wasn't doing that.

"Thing about that is: every time I think that, I also realize that you would never let it happen. If I did something to hurt Rachel... that would be it. And if you had hurt her, I wouldn't – I couldn't ignore that. I would do everything I could..." His voice trailed off, as though he was incapable of finishing the thought.

She did it for him. "And your mother didn't do that for you."

"No." He waited for a moment to see what she would say, and when she stayed quiet, he added sarcastically, "This is the part where you tell me that she didn't have the means to leave or offer platitudes like 'Things were different in those days' or –"

"I told you I wouldn't do that."

"So you did."

"I'm sorry." The earnestness with which her apology was uttered sounded foreign to her ears. She wasn't sure she had ever sounded more remorseful. "I didn't – I wasn't thinking. But you're right. She's not a good –"

"No, she's the perfect person to watch Rachel."

"Not if she makes you feel like –"

"My mother wouldn't let anything happen to _her_. I mean, even I can see that. All this has really done is confirm for me that it had nothing to do with her being incapable. It was me... something about me..."

The "No" she uttered got caught in her throat. "You can't –"

"Stop. Just don't." Coldly he sat up. He didn't look at her when he said, "I'm not talking about this anymore." As quickly as his leg would allow, he stood up. She wanted to grab his hand and force him into her arms, so she could hold him while she apologized and comforted him. But he purposely stayed out of her reach. He knew what she wanted, and he clearly wasn't going to give it to her. "Don't ask me about this again."

Before she could find the words to convince him to stay, he was gone. Before she'd gotten out of bed to chase after him, he had locked himself in his office. And she knew that there was no reaching him now. He would only come out when he had had time to push down every unwanted feeling she had brought out in him. It was unclear whether he would still be angry when he re-entered the rest of the home. She would be prepared if he was, but selfishly she hoped that he would forgive her or be willing to move on. Regardless, it was obvious:

They still needed a nanny.

And Cuddy would never see this part of House ever again.

_End (2/3)_


End file.
